


Binary System

by Cimila



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Denial of Feelings, Dream Sex, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Mutual Pining, Of Qui-Gon and Shmi, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27416926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/pseuds/Cimila
Summary: It had seemed the best thing to do, when faced with a recently freed child who cries out for his mother in his sleep. Naboo is so close to Tatooine. It's barely out of their way at all. Two days added to their trip back to Coruscant, maximum. If they leave the Nabooian celebration early the Jedi Council won't even notice.Of course, with Obi-Wan's luck, everything takes a turn for the worse. Anakin's dreams about his mother prove prophetic. Sith burn half of Mos Espa and their ship with it; chase them into the desert, into increasingly dire straits.He starts dreaming of his soulmate again, too, as though he needs the extra complication.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 63
Kudos: 594
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs 2020





	Binary System

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SiladhielLithvirax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiladhielLithvirax/gifts).



> Hello my friend! I saw one of your prompts, it instantly mutated within my brain and then I just... fled into the distance with it, I suppose. I hope that you enjoy it!! :D 
> 
> Mando'a translation: hover over with mouse on desktop, tap and hold for mobile. hovertext code found [here by La_Temperanza.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957056)
> 
> Didn't translate common Mando'a, eg: buir, jetiise, mandokarla, etc. Pls lmk if something's fucky with the translations; I have suffered.
> 
> Working on the regular SW 5 day week, 6/7 week month. Also, sw universe has a word for spinward (going with the spin of the galaxy) but no word for the opposite? There's rimward and coreward and spinward, but no necessary fourth direction??? *taps screen* America explain!!!

The chest against his back is sweat slick and firm. He holds Obi-Wan tight and bruising, fingers digging into his hips, his waist, his shoulders. A brown hand is all that Obi-Wan can see of him as it slides up his arm to twine their fingers together. Teeth graze along the sensitive skin of Obi-Wan’s neck and the tease has him arching further into the touch, pressing eagerly into it. Finally the pain comes; brutal bite ripping a moan from Obi-Wan as he writhes under the onslaught of touch, sensation.

Arousal sparks between them, air so heavy with lust it presses down on him, overwhelming. Relentless, punishing thrusts spear him open, drive him closer to the edge. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Obi-Wan wants it rougher, softer; wants more in any way he can get it.

_ Please, _ Obi-Wan begs, reaching a hand back to thread his fingers through the short hair of a man who means so much to him that it hurts. He feels like he’s going to burst, chest cavity exploding from the force of it; the ache of it. He almost wants it to happen, wants to be hollowed out. Then there’ll be space for the man to climb inside, to stay with him forever, to  _ never leave him- _

_ _ the man’s voice is just as arousing as his touch, moaned into Obi-Wan’s ear as it is. The brush of breath and lips feels like a brand.  _ _

Mine, he knows the man’s saying. If Obi-Wan spoke not a word of Mando’a, he’d know it from the tone of his voice, the touch of his hands. He’s calling Obi-Wan his, binding them together - Obi-Wan  _ is _ his. They fit so well together, matching pieces, the other half of his soul.

Obi-Wan tugs at what he can of the short hair, desperate for the man to be closer still, desperate to see his face, to kiss him, to love him-

_ Please, _ Obi-Wan manages to beg again, shifting his hips slightly, shuddering as every thrust starts to feel more intense, almost at the border of too much/not enough. He doesn’t bother to rock back into the thrusts, large hands on his hips holding him exactly where he’s wanted, giving him what he needs, and all he needs to do is  _ take it, just like this, so perfect, ner runi,  _

Obi-Wan doesn’t realise an arm’s banded across his chest until he’s been hauled up off all fours. He’s held against a broad chest, the sudden motion forcing his head back. He rests it on the shoulder behind him, baring his vulnerable neck. Trust he’s never given anyone so freely. From the corner of his eye, he can see a blur of dark skin and darker hair. If Obi-Wan looked maybe he’d be able to see who’s holding him so close, treating him so well. 

He needs to see the mans face, to look into his eyes. Kiss his lips. Press his love and devotion into every line of the mans skin. Before Obi-Wan can move - or maybe Obi-Wan was taking too long, time stretching and restarting with every powerful thrust that rocks through him - the man buries his face in Obi-Wan’s throat. He’s kissing and licking and biting across the thin skin. He wants to leave a mark. Obi-Wan wants that too. Maybe he’ll keep this one. Somehow use it to find the man he needs, bind them so tightly together the other man will never let him go.

_ Don’, _ Obi-Wan slurs, voice not working quite right. He doesn’t know whether it’s because of the pleasure or the tears. The mans thrusts stutter, stop, his hands tightening their hold on Obi-Wan. Both are wrapped around his chest. One of them is still holding Obi-Wan’s hand - or maybe is only just now holding it again. That’s nice. The intimacy of it, somehow deeper than the cock which has paused, buried in him to the hilt. He wants that; intimacy. Affection. Can feel it cascading over him in waves, shared emotions tangling in the air around them, brushing feather light over his skin.

_ Don’ leave, _ Obi-Wan begs,  _ please stay. _ His breath hitches. This time it’s definitely because of the tears. Obi-Wan doesn’t know how long he’s been crying for. 

_ I will, _ the man promises, but Obi-Wan can already feel him drifting away. Or maybe it’s Obi-Wan who’s leaving.

_ Please- _

_ Tell me your name, _ the man growls, voice loud despite the way he’s speaking into Obi-Wan’s neck.

_ please. _ He’s the one begging now, not Obi-Wan. How curious. Doesn’t he know Obi-Wan wants to give him anything, everything?

_ _ His hips are fucking up into Obi-Wan again, or perhaps they never stopped, perfect and overwhelming and terrifying.  _ ,  ,  _

Obi-Wan catches the shout between his teeth before he can make a sound, wound so tightly even before he’s fully conscious again. It’s dangerous to shout, even hidden as they are. His chest is heaving, pulse racing. Tears wet his face and he’s so achingly hard. Obi-Wan pushes the blankets away from himself, desperate for the cold night air of the desert against his overheated skin. He folds them over the other side of their makeshift bed, careful even now to make sure that Anakin’s small form isn’t exposed to the chill.

The child sleeps on, thankfully undisturbed by Obi-Wan’s troubled sleep. Anakin truly must be wretchedly exhausted if he’s slept through Obi-Wan’s abrupt waking; still unconscious even as Obi-Wan makes sure he’s tucked in tight. He’s such a light sleeper, the slightest noise from anything wakes him. He’s hypervigilant, always. Even when he’s asleep, when he should be relaxed and safe, there’s a tension to him. Some thread of awareness. Obi-Wan hates it, everything about it. He wants every good thing in the galaxy for Anakin and to see him so hyper aware breaks his heart, even as it’s useful. 

Perhaps especially because it’s useful.

Obi-Wan’s quiet and careful as he walks away from their bedroll, foot steps silent despite the grit and sand beneath his boots. He doesn’t want to wake Anakin, not when he so desperately needs sleep. He hasn’t woken up yet but Obi-Wan doubts he would be able to sleep through the sound of debris crunching underfoot. He fights against the adrenaline coursing through his body, ignores the way it feels like there’s lightning dancing along his nerves, and contorts himself to slip through the small gash in the cliff face without knocking against the rock or triggering a trap. 

He really shouldn’t be able to do that, Obi-Wan muses as he stands under the clear night sky. Rather defeats the purpose of having the traps in the first place. He takes a few steps away from the entrance, though calling it such makes it sound far grander than it is. Barely large enough for Obi-Wan to fit through. The crevasse Anakin still sleeps in is larger than it appears, thankfully. Large enough for them to lay side by side, stretch out as much as they like. Such a thing feels luxurious, now. 

The three moons bathe him in their light as Obi-Wan contemplates how to improve their traps. They need to be quick to set up and take down and leave no permanent traces on their environment, leave no way to track Obi-Wan and Anakin. Those restrictions, along with their extremely limited supplies, mean that sometimes their traps simply aren’t good enough. Obi-Wan’s lucky that he knows how to make perimeter traps at all. Despite the combat training and experience, temple classes don’t focus on things like this, or guerilla warfare, or any of the more useful forms of battle that aren’t simply - ignite lightsaber. 

An oversimplification, absolutely. But that doesn’t change the fact that Obi-Wan and Anakin have been scraping by almost entirely with Anakin’s desert knowledge and the things Obi-Wan learnt on Melida/Daan and in - 

Mandalore.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. Distracting himself hasn’t worked. He’s still hard and aching; still desperate. The dreams are getting worse. Obi-Wan had not realised how much Qui-Gon had still been using their training bond, but in its absence it’s been made very clear that Obi-Wan had not been keeping the dreams out on his own. Qui-Gon had supposedly passed on the responsibility to Obi-Wan half a decade ago, when he turned twenty. At the time, Obi-Wan had thought that he’d struggled with the dreams for a few short weeks before erecting proper shields. 

In hindsight, it’s obvious that Master Qui-Gon had simply re-established his own when Obi-Wan continued to struggle.

It makes it harder to resist, now. He’s twenty five and can’t quite manage to shut off his soul dreams, something that almost every Jedi knight masters before they’re twenty. But Obi-Wan’s dreams had been particularly vivid when he’d come of age according to Stewjoni custom, and Qui-Gon had decided that his fifteen year old padawan could not be trusted to block the bond by himself. Obi-Wan had felt the sting of that for years; until Qui-Gon had trusted him with blocking the bond, content that whatever doubts his Master had had about him were now long gone.

But Master Jinn - as was usual, Obi-Wan thought, sick with anger and grief - had not trusted Obi-Wan. Forever cast in the shadow of a previous apprentice, his own strength of will discounted; every familiarity, no matter how fleeting, a new condemnation. And Obi-Wan reaps the consequences now. He cannot erect shields strong enough to stop the soul dreams. His mind feels flayed open, still, from Qui-Gon’s death. Their Master-Padawan bond ripped free from the depths of his mind, tearing gouges as it went. The bright bond he’s formed with Anakin helps, though nowhere near enough.

There is no one here he can turn to, no support or help. At least at fifteen or twenty, he was at the temple. He could alter his sleep schedule in an attempt to avoid matching patterns with his soulmate. He could meditate and release his emotions into the Force. He could have sought help with his shields from any number of Masters, strengthened them over time until they were impenetrable against his soulmate, as any good Jedi’s were. All he’d needed then was time and instruction. 

What Obi-Wan needs now is a mind healer to soothe the still bleeding wounds. What Obi-Wan needs is for Qui-Gon to have numbed their bond before his death, instead of clinging so that he could give Obi-Wan one last order. What he needs is to not be stranded on Tatooine with a child, cut off from all communication. What he needs is for the Sith to return to the shadow of legend instead of stalking them through the desert. What Obi-Wan needs is -

_ , you’re so sweet for me. _

Despite the chaotic swirl of his mind, he’s still hard. He can’t distract himself with thoughts of their situation, their desperation, his worry for Anakin or his nauseating mix of emotions relating to Qui-Gon. He can still feel the heat of the other man pressed against him. His firm touch, the width of his hands, his broad shoulders. His voice is as addictive as his touch. He speaks so sweetly. It’s nothing like the Mando’a Obi-Wan knows, harsh and violent; it’s beautiful, when spoken from a lovers tongue.

Obi-Wan rarely dreamt, before. Not just soul shared dreams, but any dreams. The few he can remember having were nothing good. Nightmares. About Bandomeer, about Melida/Daan. Screams and blood and death. Slavers with cruel eyes. Children he was responsible for dying in a war they should never have been fighting. No matter the years that pass, he still wakes from those dreams shaken. No longer unbalanced enough to spend full days meditating over them but that fortitude has been hard won over many years. And he would still prefer those dreams to the ones he’s now experiencing. 

Every whip crack, every tiny corpse, every failure - Obi-Wan knows them already. They hurt, still. They’ll always hurt but it’s an old hurt. A known quantity is almost always preferred to an unknown. 

Though the shared dreams aren’t quite an unknown, not anymore. Too many shared nights for Obi-Wan to feel they’re truly foreign. But there is danger in being comfortable, too. Obi-Wan learnt years ago that no information is insignificant - especially not to his soulmate. He’s smart, quick witted and cunning. He can match Obi-Wan barb for barb, too. In the less than half a month that they first shared dreams, he frustrated Obi-Wan, challenged him, and managed to draw more information than Obi-Wan had thought possible out of conversations about holodramas and food preferences.

A credit to the Mandalorian Empire, surely.

When the dreams started again this time, when Obi-Wan realised that they weren’t going to stop, he decided upon a course of action. It was well thought out; a reasonable approach. Something that wouldn’t leave him waking up withdrawn and exhausted when each day already left him so. Obi-Wan knows from experience that there are not many things less restful than ignoring a Mando who doesn’t want to be ignored. Sex is easy; it’ll ensure equal footing between them, with not much room for talk besides. 

Obi-Wan had considered multiple factors, turned them over in a corner of his mind as he and Anakin scuttled through the far end of Beggar’s Canyon and towards the easternmost tip of the Northern Dune Sea. He’d thought through every aspect - almost. Exhaustion and stress lead to foolish mistakes and Obi-Wan hasn’t been anything  _ but _ for what feels like years, though he knows it hasn’t even been a half month yet. 

Perhaps, if Obi-Wan didn’t have exhaustion as well as Sith dogging his every step - if he wasn’t still suffering the aftershocks of Qui-Gon’s death. If he wasn’t doing his best to avoid plunging headfirst into the unforgiving Tatooinian desert. If he didn’t have the responsibility of another life heavy on his shoulders, Anakin’s Force presence bright and damning and a beacon to the darksiders stalking them. If he didn’t have to spend so much energy shielding the both of them from detection, he would have made a different choice. A choice that was  _ actually _ sensible, rather than a desperate grab for any sort of control.

Sometimes it’s only small things which slip through the cracks when so run down; sometimes it’s important ones.

Obi-Wan hadn’t expected how raw it would be, how unfiltered. He hadn’t thought - hadn’t remembered - that there’s no space for deception in a shared soul dream. You can talk around a subject, you can omit, but lies manifest only as truth. Impossible to lie in actions, in words, when you’re entwined so tightly together that you share a dream. A direct link between the most sacred of spaces - the mind. 

_ I need you, _ his soulmate rasps in Republican Basic and Obi-Wan knows it to be truth. The reverent way he slides his hands across Obi-Wan’s sweat slick skin, the endearments he croons in Mando’a and Repub Basic. The way he fucks Obi-Wan like it’s his life goal to break Obi-Wan’s pelvic bone.

The way he begs for a name like it’s his life goal to find Obi-Wan. 

By the same token, they both know Obi-Wan’s actions to be true. The way he writhes and begs - to be fucked, to be kept. The tears he sheds. How he reacts to every touch, every word, as though he’s drowning and - and the other man is air. Obi-Wan refuses to say his name, even now, awake and alone. He shames himself enough already; remembering a name said to him a decade ago would be more than he could endure.

He is pledged to the Jedi - Knighthood but a single meeting on Coruscant away - and Jedi deny all soul bonds. Obi-Wan dishonours his commitment to them with every dream. He clings to a man he has already forsaken. Fucks himself open on fingers and cock and tongue, desperate for every caress, for every kind word. Each night Obi-Wan feels flayed open, displaying a void within him. He hadn’t even known he was so empty inside and yet he wastes no time in trying to fill it. Crashing desperately against the Mandalorian, eager for him, to be filled by him, both literally and not. 

Pathetic. Truly. No wonder Qui-Gon had told him that it would be another year or two minimum before Obi-Wan would be ready for the Trials. Not that that had seemed to matter to his Master two weeks ago, flying from Tatooine to Naboo. 

_ You’re ready for the trials, my boy, _ Qui-Gon had said. There had been a brief moment where Obi-Wan thought… many things. That his Master was proud of him, finally. That he’d proved himself by crossing blades with a Sith and emerging unscathed, un-Fallen. That Qui-Gon was finally seeing him, Obi-Wan, not any previous apprentice. Not less than Feemor, not the next coming of Xanatos.

_ And I’ll take Anakin as my new padawan learner, of course, _ Qui-Gon had continued with an eagerness he’d not once shown for Obi-Wan’s own training. Qui-Gon Jinn, who’d barely and only begrudgingly accepted Obi-Wan as a padawan, a willing teacher once more. Sometimes being Master Jinn’s padawan feels like death by a thousand cuts. Felt. He is no longer Qui-Gon’s apprentice, despite the padawan braid that he still wears. The quick call he’d taken from the Jedi Council after the liberation of Naboo had informed Obi-Wan that there were now only formalities between himself and a Knighthood.

He wonders who will be cutting his braid, given that his Master’s remains are scattered to the winds of Tatooine. His body had been on their ship, awaiting their return to Coruscant. The same ship which the Sith had destroyed in an unfortunately very effective method of keeping them planet bound. The Sith pair - different again from the Dathomirian who’d killed Qui-Gon, and who Obi-Wan had killed in return. 

Whether the Sith pair currently doggedly pursuing them are of the same lineage as the Dathomirian is a question that will have to go unanswered. He can already hear the questions the Council will have for him and the answers which he won’t be able to give. He’s not prepared to risk Anakin’s life in a likely futile attempt to spy on a pair of Sith. That being said, he’d still prefer to be receiving a scolding for disobeying their instructions over his comlink than be stranded without the ability to contact anyone at all.

His comlink is currently a hunk of worthless metal at the bottom of their bag. Anakin promises he can fix it but there’s not much even his apparent mechanical genius can do with no tools and no spare parts. Sweet boy had cried with frustration and disappointment when the damage had proved too much to work around. His tears had been silent, streaming down his face without acknowledgement. Not a sob or a hiccup or a sniffle.

Not like Obi-Wan, who has recently become very well acquainted with the way he cries. Shuddering, uneven breaths, words slurred and cracking around them. It never takes long before touch - any touch, gentle or rough - becomes too much. Small, hitching little sobs that his soulmate pulls from him effortlessly. The mando jumps between loving and hating the sound. 

_ I’ve got you, _ the man promises, holding him close, letting Obi-Wan hide his face against a strong, brown shoulder. There’s a deep well of directionless rage that bubbles just under the surface, easy to read in their shared dreams. 

_ There’s nothing shameful about emotions. Proves you’re alive. Stay alive for me, eh,  _ He lets Obi-Wan ride him in quick, trembling thrusts, hands soothing over his hips, up his back. He presses kisses into Obi-Wan’s increasingly shaggy hair. He’s gentle, despite the anger. It’s never Obi-Wan he’s angry at.

_ Gonna cry for me sweetheart? _ His voice has a dark, mocking edge to it. His assault is brutal, hands cruel. Obi-Wan can’t even find enough breath to cry out, each thrust punishing. He loves Obi-Wan like this - pliant, willing, fingers tangled with those of the hand that isn’t slowly making its way to his throat. 

Obi-Wan can’t hide how welcome his soulmate is, burying himself deep within Obi-Wan, anymore than the man can hide his own wants and desires. He wants to keep Obi-Wan beneath him - beside him - forever. Wants his name, his location, the very heart from his chest. 

_ Jj- _ Obi-Wan had to bite his own tongue, last night. Bit it hard enough that his mouth filled with blood, dribbled down his chin until his soulmate licked it away, grin indistinct but predatory, pleased.

_ I knew you remembered, _ a sharp nip to his chin before his bloodied mouth was claimed. A tongue fucking into Obi-Wan’s mouth in an obvious parody; more blood than saliva threaded between their lips when the filthy kiss ended. 

_ I remember too, Ob’ika, _ he breathed the name into Obi-Wan’s ear and that’s all it had taken to send Obi-Wan over the edge. Undone by a mistake he’d made at fifteen. ‘Obi-en. Ben. Oben,’ he’d almost given his name away. That would have been a mistake, given the Mando’a the man had used in his initial greeting. Everyone knows how Mandalorians are about soul mates. Give them a name and they’ll never stop tracking you. 

Obi-Wan had given him a syllable and a half, less than half a name and even more useless. Neither of them ever mentioned it again. Never spoke a true name between them after that first dream. And now -

_ Ob’ika, _ he’d moaned, following Obi-Wan over the edge, coming deep inside Obi-Wan in a way the Jedi’d never allow in real life. The dream had lingered, even as Obi-Wan clawed himself awake. He tasted his soulmates satisfaction on his tongue instead of blood when he woke.

Obi-Wan had never realised that a diminutive could cut him so deeply. He can feel it still, lodged firmly in his chest. Beating against his ribs with every heart beat, every breath. He’s a terrible Jedi. He’s going to get one of the mind healers to cauterise his soul bond at the kriffing  _ root _ when he gets back to the temple, kark the consequences on his mental stability. 

He wants to hear it again.

Obi-Wan palms himself through his trousers, self-hatred sinking deep into his bones. No self control. No self respect. Can’t think of anything but getting fucked by an enemy, getting off to the thought of a pet name. Obi-Wan keeps his frustrated growl to himself, lets it rumble inaudibly in his chest, and sinks to his knees as he frees his near painful erection. 

It’s degrading, acting like this. So desperate to fuck his own fist that he’s barely able to keep upright. His other hand is pressed hard against the sandy rock, necessary to stop him collapsing face first onto the ground. He isn’t sure if he could bring himself to care, even if the rough impact would likely break his nose. All it would do was bleed and even that would remind him of -

“Jango,” Obi-Wan breathes, barely audible. His breathing is quick, sharp, the quiet pants more audible than that single word but it still burns like failure. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, doesn’t bother to force his mind to think of something other than muscular arms and soft, short hair under his fingers. 

_ Ob’ika, _ the man croons in his mind, and Obi-Wan can’t stop the way his hips snap forward; pale imitation of the unforgiving pace he’s become used to. He wants, ah, he  _ wants- _

“Jango,” nothing more than a whisper, “Jango,  , Jango,” he begs, turning his head to muffle the near silent sound with his own shoulder. Jango’s name feels heavy on his tongue, weighty, like this is some unforgivable transgression that can never be undone. Maybe it is. This is the weakening that his soulmate has been waiting for, these last weeks. At least he’s not here to witness it, to exploit it, to scoop Obi-Wan up and keep him forever like he promised.

_ _ he wants Jango to say, breath heavy against the side of his neck, probably a quick scrape of the teeth along the soft spot just behind Obi-Wan’s ear. Hands working their way easily under Obi-Wan’s stolen clothes, leaving him naked and vulnerable to the desert night. His skin prickles at the thought. Would Jango strip too or would he just shift his clothes enough to get his dick out. One of them should be prepared for sudden attack and it can’t be Obi-Wan, too desperate to think beyond the pressure of Jango’s fingers working him open steadily. 

...Would he have clothes like Obi-Wan, or would he be wearing proper beskar’gam? Obi-Wan trembles to think of Jango towering above his kneeling form, armoured from head to toe. Like this, it doesn’t even matter that Obi-Wan doesn’t know what he looks like. He knows what humanoid beskar’gam looks like, the shape of it, the weight of it; the honour. He wants to know what colour it’s painted. Whether he chose the colour for meaning or pleasure, or both. 

He needs Jango to fuck him, now, exactly like this. Obi-Wan wouldn’t be able to fight, no chance to escape, not with the full weight of Jango and his beskar’gam pressing him down. He’d be nothing less than a force of nature, pinning Obi-Wan exactly where he wanted him. Every thrust would sting, would bruise; beskar unyielding against Obi-Wan’s soft flesh. Jango would give no quarter, merciless as always, ruthless with every sharp snap of his hips. 

Stars it would hurt, it hurts, he won’t be able to walk for days. Maybe Jango will save him the trouble, just keep him in bed. Tie him down, make him stay, open and ready for Jango whenever the man wants. Anakin’ll be running around Jango’s ship somewhere, eating his fill or taking apart a droid or sneaking into the engine room to tinker with something that he shouldn’t be. Jango won’t even be mad about it, he’ll laugh and help Ani put it back together.

And then he’ll come back to where he’s keeping Obi-Wan, tied up and still messy from the last fuck; the same disgusting mess that Jango made him. Come drying on his thighs, smeared across his stomach, but he’s still soft and wet inside when Jango presses in. Maybe he wants some soft, slow sex after the hard fuck he woke Obi-Wan with, rolling his hips in an easy rhythm- no, no,  _ more, _ Obi-Wan wants more, there’s no time for slow, his knees ache, the rock’s starting to cut into his hands and Jango wants to be rough with him.

He fucks Obi-Wan’s mouth like he does his ass, like it’s nothing but a hole for his pleasure, making Obi-Wan choke around him, gag on his -  _ , _ Jango’s voice rumbles through his mind, chastising, hands soft as he holds Obi-Wan’s mouth open, tilts his head to the perfect angle. Obi-Wan covers his teeth and Jango rolls his hips, slow and languid, head of his cock just barely teasing - kriff!

No! Obi-Wan doesn’t, he doesn’t want  _ slow, _ doesn’t want Jango’s soft hands and sweet words, he wants the man to make him take it. Pin him and force him and fuck him. Wants the Mando to wrap a hand around his throat and tell him he doesn’t have a choice, he belongs to Jango now. It’s not Obi-Wan’s fault, if he does that. Obi-Wan didn’t break his vows, abandon his family - Jango stole him away, keeps him tightly guarded so Obi-Wan can never leave; treats him so sweet he never  _ wants _ to leave. 

All three of them, together on the ship Obi-Wan just knows Jango has. He seems like a spacer, more comfortable shipside than dirt bound. Anakin fell in love the moment he piloted that fighter on Naboo and it wouldn’t be too long before he had Jango wrapped around his fingers, letting him pilot the ship under careful supervision. All Mando’ade like kids but even if Jango somehow wasn’t good with them, or didn’t like them, he’d learn. He’d learn faster when every smile he earned from Anakin was rewarded by Obi-Wan on his knees later, letting Jango fuck his throat nice and slow. They’d have to wait for Anakin to sleep but it’s worth the wait. 

The filthy sound of Jango’s dick forcing its way into Obi-Wan’s relaxed throat before retreating just enough for Obi-Wan to breathe, then burying himself even deeper still. Obi-Wan’d tear up, fighting his gag reflex and Jango’d watch. He likes seeing Obi-Wan cry for him, he’d like this too. Maybe he’d want to come over Obi-Wan’s tear stained face, ah but then he’d be too disgusting to kiss. Obi-Wan’d have to swallow so he doesn’t smear come all over Jango. They should be using condoms. Obi-Wan’s never had unprotected sex but he thinks he’d let Jango-

That’s a lie. Obi-Wan would never give him an inch; no matter how weak he is right now, kneeling in the shadow of a cliff near the Northern Dune Sea on Tatooine Obi-Wan’s loyal to the Jedi. He’d never betray them. This is just some sort of stress based mental break. All he needs is the chance for proper meditation, where he can release his emotions into the Force without worry that it’ll ping the radar of their Sith friends. The things he’s feeling right now - the lust, the fantasies, the terrible aching need to press his face against Jango’s neck and  _ breathe _ \- are only temporary. They’re nothing.

This whole thing is nothing. It’s meaningless. Jedi don’t have soul mates. A quarter of the galaxy doesn’t have soul mates. They can both live a happy, fulfilling life without each other. Obi-Wan has the Jedi, he doesn’t need anything more than that. And regardless of what Jango thinks, he doesn’t need Obi-Wan either. They know nothing about each other; it’s nothing more than base lust. An infatuation. If Jango really knew him, he wouldn’t want to keep him. 

That he believes he would only goes to show how wrong he is about the entire situation.

His dick’s soft, now. The fire from earlier has been smothered, leaving him to feel the chill of a desert night cut through his bones. It’s a good outcome. There’d be no way to hide what he’d done if he’d come all over the rock. It’d be a pretty blatant sign to the Sith that they’d been here, too. Obi-Wan tucks himself away and uses the accumulated sand to scrub his hand clean of precome and spit. He tucks himself back in his stolen pants and stands.

The cave is warmer than outside, trapping heat better than the cloudless desert sky. Anakin stirs when Obi-Wan crawls back between the blankets but settles quickly when he hears Obi-Wan’s calm, quiet voice. He curls up against Obi-Wan, a sleepy weight at his side. Obi-wan counts his breathing and tries his best to fall back asleep again as well. Tomorrow they’re going to round the end of this particular run of plateau and start travelling towards Mos Taike properly. Obi-Wan needs more sleep than this if he’s going to try and sense where their clever Sith tail are. 

Hopefully they won’t actually enter the Dune Sea proper at any point. That’d be risky beyond all measure and they’d probably die of dehydration. ...If the Sith somehow block the way back towards the cities, they’ll enter it as a last resort. Struggling to survive in the Dune Sea would be better than whatever horrific torture the Sith have lined up for a Jedi and who they likely assume to be his padawan learner.

Obi-Wan feels his heart grow even heavier with the thought. That is… that is another issue entirely and one that Obi-Wan has consistently put on the back burner since they arrived on Tatooine a second time. He will respect Master Qui-Gon’s last wish, of course he will, but… Not now. Not yet. They haven’t even set foot in the temple yet, Anakin’s blonde hair still curling around his chin. There’s also the possibility that the Council will reject Anakin’s application, even with Obi-Wan pleading his case wholeheartedly. No matter his natural aptitude or midichlorian count, he’s still nine. Obi-Wan himself was a late initiate to the temple - at three years old. 

Nine is unheard of.

Better not to raise Anakin’s hopes prematurely, not after everything that’s happened. He’s easy enough to distract, intelligent as he is. He has a thousand, thousand questions, and a thousand more for each answer he receives. All Obi-Wan has to do is answer the ones which do not lead to the Jedi Temple. 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes against the dark of their cold camp, the sliver of bright moonlight snaking in from the tiny entrance negligible. He feels the weight of his eyelids immediately, stress and exhaustion and terribly small rations taking their toll. On another night, maybe he would have been more frustrated about what had happened outside, or too anxious to end up in the shared dream space with Jango once more. The last thought Obi-Wan remembers having is the hope for a deep, dreamless sleep.

  
  


He opens his eyes to see Jango, lounged across indistinct furniture. Everything in this place is fluid, including colour and space. Obi-Wan supposes that they could actively manipulate it, should they want. It’s just a dream, after all. Neither of them have ever put any time or effort into it as far as Obi-Wan knows, so the space remains nebulous, the two of them all that is solid in the world.

_ You left without a goodbye again, _ Jango says, not there facial expression somewhere between amused and bitter. Obi-Wan doesn’t reply. Jango’s wearing clothes, just as indistinct as the rest of the world when no one’s actively paying attention to them, though they turn into a kute once Jango starts to pull at them. Obi-Wan’s own non-clothes turn to Jedi robes upon inspection. 

He watches Jango strip the body suit off, revealing a form strong and muscular and frustratingly out of focus. He can run his hands and teeth and tongue over every centimeter of that chest but he couldn’t tell you the colour of Jango’s nipples. Obi-Wan doesn’t move as Jango approaches him. Reaches out when the man’s close enough, trails his hand down Jango’s arm before he lets his soulmate maneuver his tired limbs to undress him. They’re naked again soon enough. 

Obi-Wan moves before Jango. He presses his body against the firm-indistinct form of the Mando, rests his heavy head on a broad shoulder.

_ I’m so tired, _ Obi-Wan is reluctant to admit but he needs sleep more than he needs pride. Jango’s calloused hands run up the skin of Obi-Wan’s back, pulling him in closer, turning Obi-Wan’s exhausted lean into an embrace.

_ So sleep, _ Jango says and between one breath and the next they’re laid out on a bed together. The sheets are too nice for anything in the temple so they must be Jango’s. Explains why he can’t tell the colour of them, or any details of the bed itself. Big enough for both of them, at least. 

Jango keeps him close, hands tracing soothing paths over Obi-Wan’s skin. His hands glide over the scars without pause, unable to feel them in the same way that Obi-Wan only ever feels smooth skin under his own hands. Or maybe Jango’s skin really is that perfect, kept safe by beskar’gam.

_ _ His soulmate mutters, concerned. Obi-Wan doesn’t answer. He wonders if Jango can tell the difference between when Obi-Wan doesn’t understand the Mando'a used and when he’s simply refusing to reply.

Obi-Wan keeps his face pressed against Jango’s neck and breathes him in until he falls into a deeper sleep.

  
  


“What’s wrong, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks, squinting up at him. He’s chewing on a hardy desert plant that he’d found clinging to the cliff. The taste of it is disgusting, Obi-Wan now knows, but it has some water content. Enough to make eating worthwhile, kind of. He let Anakin have most of them, though the boy was adamant that Obi-Wan have the larger portion. They’d argued back and forth until it was a seventy thirty split, the seventy going to a pouting Anakin. It’s good that Anakin is now comfortable enough with him to argue back, no longer attempting to hold himself to a standard that Obi-Wan would never enforce.

“There’s nothing wrong, dear one.”

“You sure? You’ve been out of it since you woke up.” Anakin really is far too perceptive, sometimes.

“I’m fine. Just a dream.”

“A dream or a nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare.”

“Did you get weird dreams from the oasis water? That happens sometimes.” Obi-Wan huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“No, the water was fine, Anakin. I just… was dreaming of my soulmate.” Obi-Wan did promise himself not to lie to the boy, given his own morals and Anakin's likely Force given ability to sense when he's being lied to. Talking to someone about Jango feels like a bad idea, even if it is only to a child. Anakin starts bouncing on his feet, somehow finding the energy to be excited.

“You got a split soul? That’s so cool! Kitster’s aunt has two other soul parts and she says they’re really cool! They’re saving up money to come buy her free, and Kitster too.” Anakin stops bouncing, sorrow leaking into the Force around him. Mos Espa lay behind them, half razed to the ground. His friend could very well be dead. His mother  _ is _ dead. It’s not a topic that Obi-Wan wants Anakin to dwell on. 

“I only have one. He’s…” Obi-Wan trails off. He doesn’t want to lie but telling a child who’ll soon be a Jedi initiate that his teacher has a Mandalorian soul bond - a connection that he apparently doesn’t block… Silence is the better option, clearly.

“He’s what? If you had a dream about him, why’re you so upset this morning? Is he mean to you? That’s not allowed. Tell him to be nicer. If he doesn’t I’ll kick his butt.” Obi-Wan laughs, shaking his head.

“He’s, ah, he’s very nice to me. I wasn’t upset this morning. Just… melancholy, I suppose.”

“What’s that?”

“A type of sad but not the type of sad caused by someone else.”

“Oh.” For a few painfully long minutes, the only sound is the shifting of sand under their feet and Anakin munching on the plants in his hand. The boy reaches up and grabs the edge of Obi-Wan’s sleeve. Not tugging, just holding. Obi-Wan suffers it for a few moments before he turns his hand enough to grab Anakin’s wrist, gently pulling him free. He slides the small hand into his own.

“I’m not supposed to be talking to him.” Obi-Wan finally says, absentmindedly swinging their joined hands.

“Why not? Is he a bad person?” That’s a very good question. The Republic would say yes, solely on the basis of his loyalty to the Mandalorian Empire. 

“No.”

“Then why?” 

“Jedi are forbidden from attachments, soul bonds included. We cut all ties with our bonds and do not seek them out or talk to them, even through dreams.”

“What!?” Anakin sounds as appalled as a nine year old can be. “Not at  _ all? _ No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“But… you’re talking to your soul bond.”

“Yes.”

“You’re breaking the rules?”

“Very much so.” For more than just the dreams. The Council are surely aware of his disobedience by now. The Nabooian celebration has long since ended, their projected date of return to Coruscant passed. What the Council thinks of his disappearance, he doesn’t know. After failing to contact his ship, did they reach out to the Naboo? Have they been informed of his and Anakin’s Tatooinian detour? He hopes, with the repeated failures to contact him, that someone has been dispatched to look for them. A Jedi Knight would be a dearly welcomed addition to their journey, as would be their ship. But if this is not the only planet that Sith are making trouble on, if the small area of Sith claimed space has been causing trouble - Force, if there’s been a flare up on the contested Mandalorian border, something which happens with alarming regularity - then there might not be anyone to send.

Anakin mulls over this information while he finishes his food, shaking Obi-Wan's hand every now and again. He looks adorable, face screwed up in pensive thought as fibrous plant matter sticks from the corner of his mouth. He finally asks,

“Will you be punished for it?”

“I will have to meditate for a very long time, though that is no punishment. If I am not capable of blocking the bond myself…” Obi-Wan trails off, thinking through the options. Perhaps one of the other Masters would be willing to shield him, though the idea is not feasible long term. It only worked for Qui-Gon because they were together almost constantly. He is to be knighted, not shuffled along to another Master, though the Council’s decision may have changed due to his recent actions.

Weeks upon months of guided meditation are a guarantee, to restore his shields and shut the bond. He'll likely be confined to the temple until he can.

If that fails, if Obi-Wan truly cannot block out Jango… they might cut the bond. Tear it from him. The procedure is painful, damaging. Obi-Wan could very well die from it. There’s a reason it is not the preferred method to neutralize the connection. Now that he has Anakin to take care of, it’s not an option. He’d rather get shunted back into AgriCorps. Of course, they probably wouldn’t let him take Anakin to AgriCorps, not if they agree with Qui-Gon.

“What’ll they do Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks, voice small, eyes wide and afraid. Obi-Wan smiles down at him, rubbing a thumb along the side of his hand.

“They’ll help me to block it, that’s all, little one. Nothing to fear.”

Anakin squints up at him again, clearly suspicious of Obi-Wan's long pause. He bites his lip, holding back the the multitude of questions he obviously has. Obi-Wan has been doing his best to avoid speaking of the Jedi temple but it’s he who opened this can of worms. He does not want to quash Anakin’s curiosity. Conversations with his inquisitive mind are an honest delight. ...And hopefully it won’t be too long before Obi-Wan can guide the conversation in a different direction.

“You can ask more questions, Anakin. As many as you want.”

“What’s his name?” The boy asks immediately, mind apparently nowhere near Obi-Wan’s own thoughts.

“...Jango,” Obi-Wan says after the silence has stretched to uncomfortable lengths and Anakin’s starting to fidget.

“You’re probably not supposed to talk about him, huh?” Not exactly the reason that Obi-Wan had taken so long to reply but he’ll take it. He’s not wrong, after all. 

“No, I’m not.”

“Okay. Do you like podracing?”

  
  


“Are we  _ really  _ going into the Sea?” Anakin’s hanging onto his hand, their fingers tangled together. His anxiety at the prospect is easily felt in the Force around them, in the way his little fingers are clenched tight around Obi-Wan’s own. He can feel his own emotions being influenced by Anakin, unable to keep him out completely while rendering the pair of them invisible to the Force sense of the darksiders. 

“I sincerely hope not,” Obi-Wan does his best not to sound as exhausted as he is, reaching for his usual charm. It doesn’t seem to work but swinging their held hands in the air between them seems to relieve at least  _ some _ of Anakin’s nervous energy.

“But you said there was a bad guy that way!” Anakin points their joined hands towards the road to Mos Taike, although ‘road’ does stretch the terminology some. Everything on Tatooine seems to defy classification. The road is a wide swathe of desert land between the tableland they’ve been skirting for the past… Between the mountains that they’ve been skirting and the plateau which borders the southern edge of the Northern Dune Sea.

It’s been much more than a week of hiding and trekking along the base of the enormous plateau. Perhaps closer to three? Long enough that his unshaved facial scruff is threatening to turn into a beard. It’s hard to keep track of the days when they blend together so well and Obi-Wan is so tired. Every day is the same pattern, the only difference being their severely dwindling supplies. Thankfully being supplemented by scraggly local flora, despite the taste. The desert is no lifeless husk; it’s a beautiful ecosystem, formed over millennia for a distinct purpose. 

Obi-Wan’s just not so sure that said beautiful ecosystem is capable of sustaining the pair of them for as long as it would take to cross it properly. Anakin knows the desert but there’s a difference between living in a space port on the edge of it and having to survive in the middle of one. Obi-Wan desperately does not want to put that sort of pressure on the boy. He doesn’t particularly want to put such a burden onto his own shoulders, either. If they go into the Dune Sea, Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure they’ll ever leave.

“There certainly is, dear one.” Obi-Wan has not hidden their circumstances from Anakin. How could he? The Sith destroyed half of Mos Espa and - directly or indirectly - killed Shmi Skywalker. There was no chance to confirm the womans death, not when they were scrambling for non-descript clothes and enough food and big enough waterskins that escaping into the desert wasn’t an automatic death sentence. Despite Obi-Wan’s attempts to be optimistic, Anakin was certain that his mother was dead. Grim, heartsick and so angry, the Anakin who spent the first few days with him in the desert was a far cry from the worried but excited boy he’d arrived with. 

They had returned to Tatooine to free Shmi, funded with money from the generous and always kind Padmé. The Council had not known of his decision, would have explicitly ordered him back to the Temple had they known. They’d assumed that Obi-Wan would be returning as soon as he was able, once the Nabooian celebrations had ended. Obi-Wan simply neglected to enlighten them; leaving Naboo early would give them enough time to travel to Tatooine and return to Coruscant with no one the wiser.

Had they travelled direct to the Temple, Shmi Skywalker would still be alive. Obi-Wan knows this to be true, deep in his heart, despite a complete lack of the ‘hard evidence’ Qui-Gon always wanted from Obi-Wan.

Anakin had had such a terrible dream, clinging to Obi-Wan and crying for his mother - but only once they had set their course for the desert planet. His nightmare during the single night they spent on Naboo was born of a child being thrown into an active warzone, still trying to reconcile the separation from his mother. Those that came later were different. 

At the time, curled up in an uncomfortable pilots seat with a distraught child in his lap, it had only confirmed to Obi-Wan that he was making the right decision. How could it be wrong, to free a woman, to reunite mother and child? That had been his second sleepless night but not his last of the journey, watching over Anakin and his nightmares, avoiding the ones that would plague Obi-Wan’s own sleep.

If Obi-Wan hadn’t disobeyed orders, he would’ve been on Coruscant by the time he realised he had nothing shielding him from Jango but his own, lacking, willpower. Perhaps the Council already knew of his failing in that area, informed by Qui-Gon at some point. Maybe they merely wanted him back in the safety of the Temple before anything unfortunate could occur. They might have known about the Sith presence in the system. He should have listened. Instead he has, once again, made a complete hash of things.

“But if there’s a Sith waiting down there, and Sith behind us…” Anakin’s eyes dart back out across towards the sliver of desert visible between the monolith and towering plateau ahead of them. 

“We’re going to trick them. Make them think we’re headed into the Sea only to veer off at the last moment.” Obi-Wan assures him, hoping that he’s telling the truth. With the pair of Sith behind them, Obi-Wan had been quite confident in his ‘head to Mos Taike’ plan. The appearance of another oily, heavy darksider presence lurking in that exact direction has forced Obi-Wan’s hand. They’re not at the last resort plan quite yet, thankfully. Whether the last resort plan is entering the Dune Sea or facing off against one or more Sith, Obi-Wan is currently undecided. 

He’s feeling optimistic that it won’t come down to a choice between a quick death or a slow one.

Hopefully their current plan will work. They’ll cross some measure of desert between the cliffs, skewing even further north to the monolith that had been protecting their travel from the harshest of the Dune Sea’s winds. Their trackers, now trailing them distantly enough that they swim in and out of Obi-Wan’s focus, have cut off any chance of retreat in that direction. They’re almost being forced into the Dune Sea, which makes Obi-Wan even more reluctant to enter it. 

But, if that’s the way they’re being herded, perhaps they can use that. They’ll head north, acting as though they have no choice but to enter the Sea. At the last possible moment, cut directly south. Away from the towering cliffs on either side of the ‘road’ to Mos Taike. It doesn’t feel to be a particularly populated stretch of Tatooine, though there are enough sparks of life here and there that Obi-Wan has hope for their chances. By the time they head south, they’ll have reached the end of their water. If they have no luck foraging or trapping, their food will be days gone by then.

Obi-Wan’s barely eating enough to sustain himself as it is, rationing his own intake so that Anakin has enough. The child attempts to sneak food into Obi-Wan’s hands and sometimes Obi-Wan will allow him, if the maneuver used was especially smart. Whenever this happens, Anakin radiates no small measure of glee, content that he’s pulled the wool over Obi-Wan. Happy that he’s helping, that he’s able to show his care. Those brief sparks of joy are a balm for the both of them. 

This entire plan hinges on the desert providing. If the rare oasis did not shine so brightly in the Force, the pair of them would have expired of dehydration already. There is more chance of finding water among the multiple sparks of life to the south than the vast expanse of the Dune Sea, so south they must go.

The entire plan hinges on Obi-Wan being able to hide them both well enough that they’re invisible to the Sith and hope that they don’t possess another means of tracking them.

“Yeah! We’ll trick those wakamancha kung sleemos. E chu ta!” Obi-Wan has the distinct impression that, had Anakin grown up on Coruscant, he’d be spitting in the direction of the Sith right now. Instead, he makes a distinctly unsightly gesture with his free hand. Obi-Wan has never seen its like but the message is well received. There’s an odd sense of familiarity that all rude gestures share - whether it’s in the movements or the vehemence with which they’re used.

“I have never heard some of those words, Anakin, would you care to enlighten me?” His little face, somehow not already pink with sunburn like Obi-Wan’s own, turns red.

“Uh… Well… wakamancha kung sleemo means cowardly scum slimeball.” 

“And, what was it? E chu ta?” Obi-Wan makes sure to enunciate the last part exactingly and is delighted when Anakin’s eyes almost bulge out of his little face. He looks so endearingly shocked.

“Uh… it’s, uh…” Anakin trails off, bringing his free hand up to fiddle with the tips of his own fingers, still held gently within Obi-Wan’s grasp. 

“It’s hard to translate.” He finally mumbles. Obi-Wan thinks he does very well by keeping all of his laughter trapped behind his lips, though he cannot stop them from turning up into a smile. Thankfully Anakin is too embarrassed to look anywhere other than their joined hands.

“Translation is a tricky business.” Obi-Wan allows, boots crunching softly against the sand as they walk. Today is the last day that they’ll be travelling by sunlight. The towering rock has shielded them from the worst of it but tomorrow they will have no such comfort. Walking all day as the harsh desert suns beat down is a fools errand. Perhaps they should have been doing so from the beginning, but the Sith had been moving during they day and so Obi-Wan and Anakin had travelled then too.

But away from the side of the plateau, even had they sunscreen and as much water as they wanted, travelling like that would have them suffering heat exhaustion quite quickly. They might make it for a day, maybe. Not much more than that, not as they are now. Better to avoid it entirely and travel at dawn and dusk as much as possible. They’ll sleep through the hottest parts of the day and coolest part of the nights in the practically miniature tent that Obi-Wan had taken from the same place he’d found their travelling clothes.

‘Found’ being an extreme euphemism for stolen, of course. It’s not the first time that Obi-Wan has had to resort to theft and he finds it extremely hard to care about stealing from a slaver. Anakin, of course, had been  _ delighted  _ to watch Obi-Wan pick a lock with the Force. Enough to take the edge off his all consuming grief, which had flared to life along with the inferno which had swallowed the area of Mos Espa where Watto’s shop had been. 

The mass panic of the city meant that Obi-Wan hadn’t noticed the owner of the shop before he’d discovered them, his weak little mind barely visible in all the chaos. Easy enough to mind trick the man into compliance. Anakin, timid but hopeful, had practically tripped over himself in order to ask whether the same trick could be applied in aid of the sentients the man kept enslaved. Tears carved stark tracks down his dirty, soot stained face. Even if Obi-Wan were impartial to the matter of slavery - which he certainly is  _ not _ \- how could he do anything but agree?

The man had a malleable mind; it barely took a moment. At least something good came from their presence on the planet.

_ ‘Qui-Gon said you weren’t here to free slaves,’ _ Anakin had said, hurrying to keep up with Obi-Wan’s worried pace. They were both in new clothes, things that Anakin knew the desert traders tended towards, hurrying out of the still burning city. Obi-Wan had very carefully  _ not  _ said what he had thought of that.

_ ‘He was right in that slavery is not an issue that the Jedi tend to concern themselves with, though it is of course reprehensive to us.’ _ Was the best response he could think of at the time. Anakin’s shoulders had hunched inwards, head hanging lower than ever, and Obi-Wan had had to pick the boy up as they fled. They hadn’t been able to afford the slow pace of Anakin’s despondency, Sith circling ever closer. 

What Obi-Wan would not give for the Sith to return to the mist of time. That they survived for so many centuries in the shadows feels like nothing but a story. Some morality tale they tell the younglings in creche, probably. But Sith have been crawling out of the woodwork for the last century, attempting to claw parts of the galaxy into darkness, fighting the Republic, the Jedi and each other. The Council still don’t know how many different Sith lineages have survived; don’t know whether any follow the Rule of Two or not.

Their shadowy threat feels much more sinister when it’s his own steps being dogged by their tenacity.

“Do you know many languages?” It takes Obi-Wan a few seconds to recall what they had been speaking of, mind having wandered as they walked.

“It depends on what you count as a lot, I suppose.”

“I can speak four languages: Binary, Basic, Huttese and Am- ...I can’t tell you about the last one.” Anakin says, avoiding eye contact in a truly obvious tell. Obi-Wan will have to work on that with him.

“Oh? Why not?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Well, if it’s a secret, I surely would not want to impose.” 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you!” Anakin says suddenly, loudly, face turning up to stare at Obi-Wan with wide aku-pup eyes.

“I know.”

“And I’m not saying you’re anything like the Masters cause you’re not! It’s just…”

“You don’t need to explain, Anakin. It’s alright. I take no offence.” Although Obi-Wan must admit he is now teeming with curiosity over this secret language. Perhaps it’s one he created with his friend? That could certainly be secret enough. And extremely adorable. But in context, with how vehement he is, how serious, the way he’d reference ‘masters’... 

“Is it a slave language?” Those tend to be fairly secretive. 

“...How’d you guess?”

“I have had experiences with the enslavement of sentients before meeting you, Anakin.”

“Really? What happened?” Silence falls between them for a few minutes as Obi-Wan attempts to wrangle his thoughts. He has been trying to avoid talking about the Jedi with Anakin for a variety of reasons but he also has no wish to actively conceal things from the boy. Said boy tugs on his hand in order to catch his attention.

“You don’t have to say if you don’t want, Obi-Wan.” His blue eyes are solemn, far too old for his face. Obi-Wan rubs his thumb along the side of Anakin’s small hands. They’re calloused from work, just as Obi-Wan’s are from his saber.

“I am fluent in Basic - that is, Republican Basic which is the standard language through only Republican space, though it is widely used through most unaffiliated galaxy space, Huttspace included. I’m competent in Twi’leki though I lack the lekku to speak it fluently myself. Good enough at Shyriiwook but the subtleties of the language are currently beyond me. I know more Nevlaanese than I do Amanii, though I can scrape by in both. My Binary is poor and I’m quite certain the astromechs at the temple are laughing at me whenever we speak.” Anakin’s giggle is music to hear.

“...Mando’a, as well. I know Mando’a fairly well. Better than Twi’leki,” Obi-Wan reluctantly confesses. An asset for the Republic, that the almost year he spent hiding in Mandalorian space on that clusterkriff of a mission helped him gain something approaching fluency in the language. For Obi-Wan, he can no longer sever the connection between the language and his soulmate. At the time, learning how to speak Mando’a was essential to his survival, to hiding in plain sight and not being discovered as a Republican spy. 

Perhaps he was so eager to learn it for more reasons than just that. 

Anakin’s eyes go wide and starry at the mention of Mando’a. He doesn’t know what tales they tell of the Empire on Tatooine, whether they’re as distorted as the tales of the Jedi are. Perhaps they speak of how the Mandalorian Empire has no slaves, how every sentient being is eligible for their ‘education program.’ Obi-Wan wonders whether the indoctrination program has a positive reputation in a system where slavery is rife and sentient lives mean little.

“Then there’s the Meerian slave creole that developed in the Deepsea Mine.” Obi-Wan continues before Anakin can inundate him with questions about the Empire.

“What’s a creole?”

“It’s a language which forms, usually over a small time period, by mixing different languages together. This particular dialect was developed by the enslaved peoples working in said mine. It combines Meerian, Repub basic and Arconese.”

“Why’d they teach it to  _ you? _ No offence.”

“They try to teach all the new slaves as quickly as possible.” They walk for a few more steps. Obi-Wan knows the exact moment when Anakin understands. His grip tightens around Obi-Wan’s hands, footsteps faltering for a moment, and then he’s almost clambering up Obi-Wan’s side. Oh, actually, strike the ‘almost.’ Despite the lack of hand holds of any sort on his Tatooinian clothing, Anakin climbs his way up Obi-Wan’s side. He settles with his knees digging uncomfortably into the soft space just below Obi-Wan’s ribs, gripping tight. His little hands are patting all over Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

Obi-Wan manages to stay upright, widening his stance and wrapping his arms around Anakin to make sure he doesn’t slip and fall.

“You were a slave? When did you get free? Where? How’d you get your implant out? Did the Jedi free you? Is that how you became a Jedi? How far into a desert do you hafta be before it’s called deep sea? Do-”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan interrupts, bemused. He certainly hadn’t expected such a reaction. Anakin pouts a little, wriggling to be let down. Obi-Wan helps him back to his feet, unsurprised when Anakin grabs his hand again. He’s made a habit of it, lately. 

“Sorry. Mum says… she used to say it’s rude to ask people about their before life.” 

“I’m sure your mother would understand; I think she would have been very curious as well. She sounds a great deal like you. Curious, intelligent, kind.” Anakin makes a few sounds that could be interpreted as the start of tears. Obi-Wan does not panic. He’s too exhausted to panic over how to deal with a crying child. Although the first few days of their desert flight certainly had him fluttering around Anakin like a spark-drunk mynock, trying desperately to stem the tears and despair. At least that broke whatever barriers Anakin still had towards him. There hasn’t been a resurgence of the too polite, scared of punishment child since.

“It hurts. She was already behind me so why does it hurt so bad?”

“Behind you?”

“It’s how we call people when you’re gone; sold. You never see anyone again if you’re sold. They’re behind you and you gotta keep moving forward. Keep living.”

“That’s very poetic Anakin.” Sad, but poetic. And Anakin was freed, not sold, though he supposes in this case the result is the same. Had Qui-Gon not died, they would be on Coruscant now. He would have been encouraged to think of his mother as ‘behind him’, though for a different reason.

“I didn’t come up with it.” Anakin rubs at his face, probably ineffectually. Hopefully he’s not actually crying. He can’t afford to lose the fluid. Obi-Wan looks at the shadows surrounding them, guesses the suns to be halfway between their zenith and the horizon. Thinks for a moment and a handful of steps before gently pulling Anakin to a stop. 

“It hurts because you love her, dear one. There is nothing which can ease this pain except for time. All you can do is keep her memory safe and treasured. Think of her smile and her laughter and how much she loved you.” Not exactly the advice he would have given to one of the younglings at the Temple but Anakin is not yet an initiate. He doesn’t know how to release his emotions into the Force or meditate properly. 

Even if he did, Obi-Wan would advise against it. Anakin’s grief is deep and strong; he would undoubtedly leave a lasting imprint in whichever place he meditated. The Sith would find it easily once Obi-Wan’s shielding moved far enough away.

“How’d they say it where you’re from?” Anakin’s eyes are still red but the tears welling in them do not fall. His words make no sense. Obi-Wan wonders if he’s even more exhausted than he thinks he is - very likely, in all honesty - because this is the second time in not even an hour where he’s lost the thread of conversation. This time it helps not a bit to run through the previous conversation in his head. He has no idea what Anakin’s speaking about.

“I’m sorry dear one, I don’t understand what you mean.”

“We say the people are behind us. How do they say it where you’re from?” Ah.

“I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression, Anakin. Come, sit with me. We’ll take a break for now and start again closer to dusk.” It might be easier for Anakin to shift his sleep schedule like this, anyway. A break now, walk for hours in the night and he’ll be hopefully be exhausted enough to sleep through the day tomorrow. 

Anakin sits as close to Obi-Wan’s side as he thinks he can get away with. Or maybe as close as he can stand, given the heat. Obi-Wan’s credits are on the first option, however, as sometimes Anakin shifts ever closer until he’s practically in Obi-Wan’s lap. Sometimes Obi-Wan doesn’t wait for Anakin to complete his slow creep towards him, just scoops the boy up and settles him against Obi-Wan’s side or in his lap. It gives them both the reassurance that touch usually brings to human and near-human species. Makes it easier to sneak food back into Anakin’s hands, too.

“I was not born into slavery. I was only enslaved for a few, thankfully brief, months. I never heard a term for someone being sold on. No one was sold on from the mines.” He doesn’t elaborate but it’s clear he doesn’t need to. Anakin’s nodding, his still teary gaze deepened by empathetic knowing that a nine year old should not posses. Not about such a terrible subject. It doesn’t surprise Obi-Wan that there are places on Tatooine that work their slaves to death as well.

“I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“As am I. Now, to answer your other questions: I was freed after a few months. There was a slave lead rebellion. It was on a planet called Bandomeer. We didn’t have implants, we had explosive collars welded around our necks.”

“How’d you sleep like that?”

“Very badly.” Obi-Wan’s voice is dry as the desert around them and Anakin grins up at him. Obi-Wan runs a hand - the only free one he has, Anankin still clinging to the other - through the child's sun bleached hair. Anakin leans into the motion, takes the opportunity to slide closer. Perhaps Obi-Wan should just hug him now but the afternoon heat is enough to stay his hand. 

“There was a rebellion and we were all freed. I suppose you could say that it was how I became a Jedi padawan, for Master Qui-Gon took me as an apprentice after that, but I grew up in the Temple on Coruscant. I… I had aged out of the creche and was sent to join the AgriCorps, on Bandomeer.” Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s spoken of this in years. These are not memories he’s particularly proud of. He doesn’t like to dwell on the anger he felt, the desperation that started to sink in as the weeks and then months crawled by, the fear. The betrayal. 

Reflecting on his own failures is still better than Anakin crying by a wide margin. He’s listened to the boy cry for his mother so often that sometimes he feels he cannot stand any more of it. Listening to Anakin cry silently, curled up into a tiny ball as the child pretends to sleep, is gut wrenching. 

“What’s AgriCorps?”

“Agricultural Corps. They’re part of the Service Corps. It’s where the failed initiates go.”

“You can  _ fail _ at being a Jedi?  _ You _ failed at being a Jedi?” Anakin sounds gratifyingly shocked.

“If you fail your initiate trials or aren’t chosen for an apprenticeship by the age of thirteen, you join the Service Corps. I passed my trials but wasn’t chosen by any Master; I went to the AgriCorp. It is entirely my luck that I landed on a planet with an undocumented enslaved population and a darksider willing to enter me into their ranks.” A rather nice summary of the drawn out, painful events which had lead to Obi-Wan having a slave collar forced around his neck.

“And Qui-Gon saved you?”

“Ah, essentially.”

“And then you became a Jedi!”

“Yes. I was very glad that Master Qui-Gon finally agreed to take me as an apprentice.”

“Finally? Did you know him before that?” Obi-Wan wonders if it’s too late to shove those words back into his mouth. Anakin’s brows have started to furrow again. Obi-Wan lets the silence stretch out between them for a moment, before sighing heavily.

“Yes. Before I left the Temple for the first time, Master Jinn rejected me as an apprentice. He thought that I was too angry to be a proper Jedi.” He was right, of course. He’d been a very angry youth. His experiences on Bandomeer, on Melida/Daan, hadn’t helped. His time in Mandalore space had helped; hindered him also, but in a different way. Obi-Wan knows himself to be much steadier now. ‘Stable’, disregarding this particular setback. He’s not angry, he’s simply exhausted and stretched almost to breaking. Not especially stable but stable enough.

Nothing that the months of meditation he’s facing while attempting to shield himself from Jango won’t fix, at least.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, rocking up to his knees clearly panicked, “Obi-Wan am I too angry to be chosen?” His hand is tight around Obi-Wan’s own again, the other clenched into a little fist.

“Of course not.”

“But I  _ am  _ angry.” 

“Even if you were the angriest being in the galaxy, Anakin, I would still be honored to have you as my apprentice.”

“You?!” 

“If you’ll have me, of course. I do not intend to pressu-” He’s cut off by Anakin’s small body colliding with his own. The sudden impact has Obi-Wan’s head thudding painfully against the rock behind him.

“No! I want Obi-Wan! You’re the best!” The dull throb now spreading across the back of his skull is a cheap price to pay for Anakin’s enthusiasm, the happiness he’s projecting. Obi-Wan hugs him back. Well then. He should probably get started with the Jedi teachings sooner rather than later, if Anakin’s so enthusiastic about it.

“Hey Obi-Wan?” Anakin’s voice is muffled by Obi-Wan’s shoulder, the boy clearly content to stay there. Obi-Wan hums in response, also quite content.

“I don’t wanna call you master.”

“And you will never have to. I swear it, Anakin.”

“What’ll I call you, then?”

“Obi-Wan seems to be working out just fine.” He can feel Anakin’s happiness bubbling in the Force, vibrating down their slowly strengthening bond. 

  
  


The feeling of being scrutinised is intense. Obi-Wan hopes that exhaustion doesn’t count as an emotion, hopes that Jango can’t feel the way it presses down on Obi-Wan. He thinks it might be a futile hope. Or maybe Jango can see how it weighs on him, despite the way they’re forced to view each other through a blurred lens. Hard to tell anything, when they’ve never met in the waking world. No scars or wrinkles or expression, though emotion flows uninhibited between them. Facial hair is more visible than Obi-Wan had assumed. Jango must have been clean shaven this entire time because the man seems able to perceive Obi-Wan’s encroaching beard.

Sometimes, at least. There have likely been studies done on the effects of self-perception and reflection on the presentation of self in shared dreams. Obi-Wan’s never read much about the bonds, keeping them foreign to him as they were supposed to be. He doesn’t have much energy to devote to thinking about it now. The only thing he cares about is the way it feels when Jango scratches his nails through the heavy scruff; gentle and soothing enough that Obi-Wan would purr if he could. 

It’s later than usual, Obi-Wan having spent the first part of the night walking then setting camp. No more caves to hide in, just the small, stolen tent. It truly is a ridiculous size, forcing he and Anakin so closely together that Obi-Wan had half hoped that he would sleep dreamlessly. He should always hope that, for them to return to being ships in the black. He doesn’t. Is glad to be standing here with Jango, despite his concerns.

Jango isn’t touching him yet, despite how long they’ve been standing here. He always waits for Obi-Wan to initiate. The Jedi wonders whether it’s a mannerism born of their age difference. The Mando’ade had clearly been shocked, the first dream they’d shared. Until that moment Jango’d obviously thought he was part of the percentage of unbound. The older man certainly hadn’t expected to start sharing dreams with a fifteen year old.

He’d start conversations, cajole Obi-Wan the stubborn Jedi padawan into talking, but he never took so much as a single step towards Obi-Wan. Now that Obi-Wan’s initiated touch between them, very intimate touch at that, he’s more willing to walk forward, to circle, to press close. He still never touches first.

Obi-Wan wants to reach out but his limbs feel leaden, even here. Jango’s already proven that he doesn’t mind if they do nothing more than lay side by side on a bed, curled around each other. More than doesn’t mind; actively enjoys it. Obi-Wan can guess why. The intimacy of it is almost overwhelming - everything they do feels that way, sometimes. The sex is too intimate, sharing a bed is too intimate, doing nothing but  _ look _ at each other is too intimate. Maybe it’s just Jango who’s overwhelming.

Maybe it’s the inevitable consequence of denying a bond for a decade.

Whatever the reason, it’s addictive. He’s starting to crave it, despite his better judgement. Longs for it. 

He doesn’t have the energy to fuck but he wants to. Maybe Jango won’t mind if he just lays there, half on the edge of a deeper sleep. Would his soulmate like that, to use his body in such a way? Maybe not. He’s always been a fan of Obi-Wan’s enthusiastic participation. But Obi-Wan is enthusiastic, he’s just so tired. He’ll have to ask. Either way he wants them naked; the reassuring weight of Jango against his side or pressing down on him. Grounding him. He won’t feel it for a while. Ever again, maybe, if things line up just wrong. 

He can’t lie to himself here and say he’d like that, to never see Jango again.

_ Jango, _ Obi-Wan sighs,  _ you won’t see me- _

He’s cut off by a hand snapping up fast and sudden. Jango touches him first; a broad palm cupping the back of Obi-Wan’s head. Fingers tangle in the unwashed mess, pull him forward gently but firmly. Obi-Wan’s still blinking in shock at Jango reaching out without explicit invitation when their foreheads tap together. This close he should be able to stare deep into Jango’s eyes. There’s nothing but a frustrating blur.

_ _ Jango orders,  _ don’t do this to me again Ob’ika! _ Jango presses further into their Keldabe kiss, grinding their foreheads together in a way that begins to border on uncomfortable. Maybe he’s just shaking his head.

_ What? Jango, I- _

_ Don’t, _ Jango interrupts, because apparently that’s the theme for tonight,  _ Ob’ika I can’t take it again.  _

The air between them thickens, deep enough to drown in. It’s seeping from Jango’s skin, carried with every exhale, it’s - sorrow. Bitter grief. Heartsickness. Jango’s other hand comes up to cradle his jaw, thumb rubbing over his cheek.

_ It feels like you’re dead, when you shut me out like that.  _

Obi-Wan didn’t know that. It certainly doesn’t feel that way to him, their living but muted bond still clear to his own senses. But for someone without access to the force… Obi-Wan wonders why the Jedi Masters don’t tell them that part. Knows why they don’t.

_ That first time you gave me some warning, at least. Let me know what was happening. But the next time… You mentioned a mission. Do you remember? Excited enough to let it slip.  _

_ You teased me, _ Obi-Wan remembers. He’d been so appalled at himself, even if nothing classified had been said. Jango’d grinned, laid out like a Corellian sand panther. In hindsight, the pose was blatantly seductive. Fifteen was too young but twenty? Obi-Wan hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t  _ wanted _ to notice. Kept himself oblivious for all that there’s been a direct correlation between their shared dreams and the amount of time twenty year old Obi-Wan had spent in the ‘fresher.

_ I asked if it was dangerous. I could feel the way your anticipation was edged with anxiety. You didn’t answer. _

Obi-Wan can’t even remember what the mission was, now. Something out at the border of the Republic? Or maybe on an unaffiliated planet out near the small but growing blight of Sith space.

_ I told you to be careful and then never saw you again. Hoped you were alive. Thought you were dead. _

It echoes through the air around them, waves of old grief rippling, washing over them both. Obi-Wan thinks he can feel Jango’s breath, heavy and uneven against his lips. Is never sure whether he can actually feel it or if his brain just fills in the sensations it knows should be there.

_ How pessimistic of you, _ Obi-Wan attempts to joke. It falls flat in the face of Jango’s pained sincerity.

_ A decade and I’ve spent a month with you. Five years thinking you were dead. And then you come to me again and you love me so sweetly Ob’ika. _ He slides his hand down Obi-Wan’s neck, over his now or maybe always bare shoulder. Over his increasingly thin torso. He leaves a trail of heat in his wake, has Obi-Wan shivering with every caress. He leans into it, into Jango. The man keeps them together, forehead to forehead, even as he pulls Obi-Wan’s body tightly against his own.

There’s no space between them anywhere, except their mouths. A heinous oversight. Obi-Wan attempts to correct it. Jango tilts his face away. Foreheads still together, mouths even further apart. It sends a dull throb through Obi-Wan. He wishes it were nothing but an echo of Jango’s own pain instead of his own. Jango’s never done anything but welcome him before. Never turned him away or withheld a kiss; it stings, even with how close Jango’s holding him.

_ You arch into my every touch. _ Broad, warm hands curving over his waist, up his spine. He melts against those familiar, loved hands. Proves Jango’s point but it was never in doubt. There’s no way to hide, here. It’s obvious how much he thrives under the attention; how desperate he is after being denied a single kiss.

_ You long for me,  _ **_beg_ ** _ for me, and still you want to leave?  _

_ No, no, _ Obi-Wan thinks maybe says, pressing kisses against what parts of Jango’s face he can reach. He doesn’t want to leave.  _ Force _ he wishes he could stay here. Wishes he could bring Anakin here, too. Somehow move through the dream and to wherever Jango is. Jango’d keep the both of them safe, keep them fed and comfortable. They’d never have to think about Tatooine again or the Sith attempting to corral them. Obi-Wan would probably never be allowed off Jango’s ship - out of his bed - but Anakin’d be safe.

Obi-Wan would do many things, to keep Anakin safe.

_ What do I have to do to make you stay? _ Jango’s voice is a harsh whisper. Maybe he thinks speaking quieter will make it harder to hear the way it strains over the question. Make it easier to ignore the desperation. 

_ I’m not going, _ Obi-Wan says, truth in every word. His own desperation is surely leaking against Jango’s skin, staining him with every touch of Obi-Wan’s frantic hands. He smoothes them over Jango’s chest, his broad shoulders. Both hands sliding up until they’re cupping the back of Jango’s neck, keeping the man in their Mandalorian kiss just as much as he’s being kept.

_ Changing my sleep pattern. I’m not going, can’t keep you out, so good in my head, in my body, need you so much- _ Obi-Wan bites his own tongue again, the only way he can stop the flood of words that he means but doesn’t want to say.

Jango kisses him. Slides between Obi-Wan’s pressed tight lips easily, tonguing him deep and slow. They grind against each other as they kiss, pleasure sparking back and forth between them. It doesn’t erase the lingering desperation, the old sorrow. Obi-Wan pulls away before he can get swept up in it, before he finds himself willingly speared on Jango’s dick, writhing and needy and eager for anything he’s given. He wants so badly, can feel his arousal and need spurring them on, but he can’t he can’t he-

_ Can’t, _ he breathes out when he manages to break the kiss, chasing his own words with small, chaste kisses,  _ wasn’t alone before but now it’s worse. Tent’s so small. Would you even fit? So broad Jango. _

Jealousy bites into the next kiss Jango gives him. The grinding stops, hips now angled away, but _the_ _kiss._ If Obi-Wan spent the rest of his life kissing every sentient he met, he would still remember the way Jango kisses. The feel of it, the emotion. It’s breathtaking. 

_ New schedule?  _ , Jango says, lips brushing Obi-Wan’s with every word.

_ Before dawn to midmorning, _ Obi-Wan lets his hands slide down Jango’s neck again, coming to rest on his shoulders. He resists the temptation to let them wander. He’d stopped them for a reason and that reason is probably crushing the air from his very lungs at that moment. The small tent has apparently enabled Anakin’s death by cuddle programing.  _ Late afternoon until almost midnight.  _

A few weeks ago and that would be too much information; Obi-Wan would’ve spat vitriol at himself for thinking about divulging such a thing. He barely gives it a second thought, now, though he doesn’t clarify whether that’s his sleep or waking times. It doesn’t seem to matter.

_ Desert, _ Jango knows, thumb starting to make delightful circles against Obi-Wan’s scalp. 

_ Mmmm, treat me so well, _ Obi-Wan mumbles. Jango makes an amused sound, even as his concern wraps around them. 

_ You’re exhausted,  I’d treat you so well. _ They kiss again, Obi-Wan unsure when it started or whether it ends. It seems to drag on in the most wonderful way until his back’s against something soft, cool sheets beneath him. Jango’s a line of heat down one side and Obi-Wan thinks about having his cheek pressed against that brown chest until he blinks and finds himself exactly where he wants to be.

_ , _ Jango tells him, keeping Obi-Wan surrounded and warm and happy. The expanse of chest somehow manages to swim in front of his tired eyes so Obi-Wan closes them. He slips into a deeper sleep, Jango’s voice a soothing lullaby.

_ ,  ,  .  .  , Ob’ika. K’oyacyi. _

  
  


Anakin’s yawn is loud in the pre-dawn desert. The nocturnal creatures, of which there are many, are beginning to return to their homes. Like yesterday, such movement has left them with an animal in their trap. This one is distinctly reptilian in nature. Anakin leans against Obi-wan, face pressed mostly into Obi-Wan’s side. He’s clearly wondering whether returning to sleep where he stands is a viable option. The new sleep schedule has been hard on him. He peels his face away from Obi-Wan just enough to identify the creature.

“Dune lizard,” He mumbles, “good eating.” 

Thank the Force. The Sand Bat Obi-Wan had hoped to eat the previous night for breakfast was most emphatically  _ not. _ It had venom powerful enough to injure a Krayt Dragon. If butchered incorrectly, the venom will spoil the meat. And potentially kill them even without eating the meat. Obi-Wan had made the executive decision to Force throw the bat as far from their campsite as possible

“Wonderful. I don’t suppose you have any cooking suggestions?” His only response is another yawn. Obi-Wan would do a great many things for one of Dex’s burgers, right about now. Juicy, mouthwatering, spectacularly unhealthy and indescribably delicious. Somehow he doesn’t think desert lizard cut into thin strips and charred by lightsaber is going to come close. 

  
  


“I don’t think I like the Jedi way.” Anakin announces, apropos of absolutely nothing. He’s staring up at the three moons, Ghomrassen, Guermessa and Chenini. The last thing they’d been speaking about was - ah. Well. Like Obi-Wan said before, knowing Mando’a is a benefit to the Republic. Though there’s currently a truce between the two galactic powers, it’s extremely unlikely to last for any substantial length of time. Having at least a basic understanding of Mando’a is only sensible.

Besides, Anakin had wanted to learn more languages. Who is Obi-Wan to deny an eager student? That Obi-Wan had chosen to start with Mando’a is neither here nor there. It’s a logical decision, thinking of Anakin’s future. He started with simple vocabulary, numbers and colours and did not think about where Jango would have started. Anakin counted along with him and Obi-Wan did not wonder what Jango’s voice would sound like, reciting the Resol’nare. 

The night air is dry and cool. It scrapes against his skin, almost a physical presence. It’s nothing like the too heavy air of his soul dreams, weighted with emotion and all the things Obi-Wan denies himself. He was very aware of the desert air as he walked and taught Anakin; it, at least, allowed Obi-Wan to lie to himself.

Since that lesson slash conversation had come to a natural close, they’ve been walking in companionable silence. Anakin tangling and untangling their fingers, humming under his breathing. Looking up at the moons and then out across the plains, towards the desert hills they’re slowly approaching. Obi-Wan knew that Anakin’s silence wouldn’t last much longer, despite what’s likely to be a very dry throat, but he certainly never expected this.

“Why not, dear one?”

“Peace over emotion, harmony over chaos…” He trails off, gnawing on his lips and swinging their joined hands as they walk. Obi-Wan had thought that this was the age where younglings start to reject physical displays of affection but he’s clearly misinformed. Anakin clings to him as much as he can. Holds his hand, leans into his side, steals his warmth in the cool desert night as they sleep. Clings still when they’re attempting to sleep through the worst of the heat, even though it should be too hot to even  _ think _ about another persons body heat.

“I get where you’re coming from,” Anakin starts again, “and it  _ sounds _ nice I guess, but…” Obi-Wan hums in query when Anakin falls back into silence, carefully non judgemental. He doesn’t want to accidentally influence Anakin’s ideas, his wants.

“Chaos is life, Obi-Wan. The wind, the desert sands, the path to freedom. They’re ever changing, life from chaos; they have to be. There can never be harmony when one being can own another.” Moonlight reflects off Anakin’s blue eyes as he looks up, imploring Obi-Wan to understand.

“There are versions of the code that say chaos, yet harmony; emotion, yet peace.”

“Is that the version people follow?”

“It is the version recited at initiate trials,” Obi-Wan gives a non answer that Anakin is smart enough to spot.

“You said you meditate strong emotion away,”

“We meditate to understand it, to work through it. To learn how to distance ourselves from it. And if there is too much of it, yes, we can give it through us and into the Force.”

“But emotion’s how you know you’re alive, Obi-Wan.”

Hearing an echo of Jango’s words in Anakin’s has Obi-Wan somehow tripping over his next step, foot sliding across the sandy rock. He catches himself before he falls properly, one arm windmilling out briefly. The other hand is still held tight by Anakin. After he’s steady again, Obi-Wan lifts their joined hands. Opens his so Anakin’s almost white knuckled grip on him is displayed, clinging without remorse.

It’s a non issue here, on the flat, but Obi-Wan hopes that Anakin isn’t foolish enough to cling if the same thing should happen when they’re in the dunes. The boy remains unrepentant in the face of Obi-Wan’s slight censure. Unsurprising, really. Having long since shed the mild persona he obviously donned around unfamiliar adults as an enslaved boy, Anakin’s strong willed and stubborn. 

The small hand gripping his own only loosens once Obi-Wan properly holds his hand once more. They restart their journey in silence, Obi-Wan mulling over what to say next. Time stretches on as they walk, though not in the same way it does in dreams. This is merely the stretch of monotony, of walking with no distraction, moonlit landscape unchanging to his near-human eyes.

“If you do not wish to join the Jedi, you do not have to.”

“I’ll join,” the boy shrugs, apparently unconcerned with the clash of this statement with his previous one.

“You shouldn’t join the Order if you don’t agree with their core tenets, Anakin,” Obi-Wan half scolds, though he doesn’t have the energy to put much heat behind it. Compared to some of the dressings down Obi-Wan has received, it’s barely a mild reprimand. 

“I wanna stay with you.” Anakin says and Obi-Wan tightens his fingers around Anakin’s for a brief second. The child is only nine, his mother dead and his home is gone. Obi-Wan is the only person he knows, now. Of course Anakin wants to stay with him. It shouldn’t mean so much to him, shouldn’t affect him so profoundly. If Anakin knew he had other options, he wouldn’t choose Obi-Wan.

“I have friends outside the Order, you don’t-”

“You want me to leave you?”

“No! Ani, of course not.”

“Alright then.” Anakin says, as though that’s all there is to it. Maybe it is. Despite Obi-Wan’s intention to continue talking about this, Anakin’s quick to change the subject. Whether it’s because he doesn’t want to talk about it or because he doesn’t think there’s anything left to talk about, Obi-Wan can’t divine from Anakin’s Force presence or their bright bond. He doesn’t press the issue, lets the conversation shift gears. Winding along Anakin’s fast moving thoughts, moving on and forward and eventually doubling back around to more Mando’a lessons. 

A simple enough subject that gives Obi-Wan more than enough brain space to really think about what Anakin said.

He doesn’t agree with the tenets of the Jedi. Perhaps it’s an issue which could be worked through, talked out. An incompatibility likely stemming from the poor way in which Obi-Wan has explained it, mind dulled by this slow starvation. Easily fixed when more talented teachers take the reins for such lessons.

But… perhaps it is something deeper. There are many who find the Jedi way of life incomprehensible. The Sith and darksiders, of course. The Mandalorian Empire. A wide swath of sentients in the Republic also find them foreign, even as they’re sent out to skirmishes to protect the borders of Republic space. Dying to keep safe people who think them cold and lifeless. If their rejection of soul bonds was more widely known, they would be seen as unnatural and perverse, too.

And there  _ are _ Jedi who willingly leave the temple. Not just people who are forcibly shuffled into the Service Corps; padawan learners and even Knights sometimes. Following the Jedi teachings is not the path best suited for everyone and there is no shame in that, no matter what he had thought at thirteen. There will be no shame in it for Anakin, either, Obi-Wan will make sure the boy understands that. 

Ruminating on the issue as they walk -

“The colour of Tatoo I and II is?”

“Shi'yayc; yellow. They’re visible in the  ”

“Very good Anakin!”

\- Obi-Wan realises that he’d thought, he’d hoped for… It doesn’t matter now, that he’d been planning how best to alter his and Qui-Gon’s quarters to best suit Anakin. Wondering whether the boy would like all of Qui-Gon’s blasted plants, if he and Anakin could take care of them together. 

Should he have explained the Jedi way as soon as he’d had the opportunity, while they were on Naboo? He chose to wait, his Master’s death an open wound; the weight of properly teaching a padawan on top of that too much to take. And yet, the bond had formed between them anyway. Spontaneously, beautifully, Anakin’s mind and Force presence soothing his own injured mind. 

He should have explained it then, about the Jedi and their mission; their worth. Instead he skirted around speaking of the Jedi and their teachings. Such things were tied so deeply to his memories of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan found himself faltering, whenever he saw an opening to teach Anakin about the Jedi. Instead he turned the conversation away, again and again. Spoke of their bond instead, explained the link between their minds, the rarity of such an instantaneous connection and mentioned the Jedi only obliquely. In doing so, in submitting to his own weakness, he has likely lost that quiet future he hadn’t quite realised he’d been planning for.

Obi-Wan does not attempt to persuade Anakin or change his mind, though he thinks he could. Quinlan’s teased him for his silver tongue before and Anakin is only a child. It would be easy to change his mind. Easy, but reprehensible. If Anakin cannot commit to the Jedi way, Obi-Wan will not force him, despite his own wishes. Maybe it’s for the best. That tranquil dream that he’d envisioned for the  three two of them doesn’t exist. 

There hardly seems room for a peaceful childhood at the Temple anymore. Knights and Masters go to battle on the Mandalorian front, with the growing Sith threat, their too young padawans trailing them like so much canon fodder.

Anakin’s a wildfire, a desert storm, wild and unrestrained now that he’s free. There are similar people in the Temple, of course - Quinlan comes to mind immediately - but they’re all… The first years of ones life are formative. All the Jedi grow up in the creche. Despite later experiences, the way life can twist and shift and alter you, there is still that shared upbringing. The… the obedience, for lack of a better word, towards the Council and the Masters; an adherence to the Code and to a subtle but still very extant hierarchy. Some people, like Qui-Gon, regularly make choices that run directly counter to such things but they are in a very small minority. Anakin would be in that minority, without a doubt.

He would never call any on the council Master, not without it hurting something deep within him. He’s stubborn, willful. If he became an initiate at such an age, the expectation would be for him to be… perfect. The perfect padawan. Anything else would be scrutinised harshly, subject to gossip; ostracising, for such a young child. And they would expect Obi-Wan to make him that way, to pull his hand away from Anakin’s own, to reject the open affection Anakin dispenses to him so freely. 

Obi-Wan isn’t sure he could ever do that.

  
  


_ Tired, Ob’ika? _ Jango asks, hands sliding over Obi-Wan’s skin without intent. Obi-Wan’s long since learnt his lesson about small talk with Jango. How he figured out Obi-Wan lived on Coruscant still escapes him. There are three large Jedi Temples and many more small ones; it’s not an easy conclusion to draw, especially when Obi-Wan had been so guarded against leaking information. This knowledge has mattered less and less, the longer he’s been on Tatooine. 

Now it’s not even a concern. Obi-Wan has bigger things to mull over; one in particular that he cannot get out of his head. A ridiculous idea but one that’s grown larger and larger ever since Anakin made his opinion on the Jedi clear.

_ I could sleep for a week, _ Obi-Wan says, shifting on Jango’s indistinct bed so that it’s easier for Jango’s hand to slide up his spine. He can feel Jango’s pleasure at the action, deeper than ever after… before. When Jango had thought he was intending to block their connection again and Obi-Wan hadn’t hesitated before denying it, before admitting how he craves Jango’s presence.

When Obi-Wan had thought he’d heard, thought Jango had said - but that part was a true dream. Jango wouldn’t have said… that. They barely even know each other, this is just- Obi-Wan can’t lie to himself, not here, so the thought goes unfinished. Whatever this is, there is no ‘just’ about it. It’s too large, too all encompassing, for Obi-Wan to diminish it so.

_ I’d let you. Bring you food so you’d only need to leave for the ‘fresher. _ It would be a lie to say such an offer is only tempting because he’s so worn thin. Obi-Wan has no need to answer verbally; they can both feel that he wants that, the ache of it brushing over their skin. Their shared dream space spills their secrets so easily, though Obi-Wan often feels as though it betrays only him. The things he wants to ignore swirl around him, tangling with Jango, pressing over his skin, tying them together. 

Maybe Jango feels as though it’s a betrayal of his inner self too, to have such things laid out before another. Somehow, Obi-Wan doubts that. Perhaps because Jango has never attempted to deny what he’s feeling in regards to Obi-Wan. His lusts, his affections, his pain. He speaks it just as easily as he feels it. His longing mixes with Obi-Wan’s own wants, his own soul deep ache; it hangs heavy in the air, soft but intent. It’s a shock, sometimes, to wake up from these dreams. To be immersed in Jango’s deep, quiet affection in one moment and then so jarringly alone in the next.

Jango presses butterfly kisses across his shoulder, light and chaste. Sticking to their new, child friendly guidelines. He hasn’t asked who Obi-Wan’s sharing a tent with, hasn’t asked any sly questions about which particular desert on which particular planet Obi-Wan is in. He doesn’t kid himself that Jango isn’t looking. The answers that Obi-Wan’s been giving are freer than they every have been before but Jango hasn’t taken advantage. 

_ Are you a good cook? _ Obi-Wan’s own hands are brushing low against Jango’s stomach. Too low for this attempt at sex free cuddling. Nails scraping gently across the thin skin below Jango’s navel. Jango doesn’t stop him and Obi-Wan isn’t sure he can stop himself. He has enough willpower not to trespass any lower, at least. He’s still exhausted, but the reduced time travelling in the sun has made him feel less drained. Has him more alert. Clearly travelling in the shadow of the huge plateau hadn’t helped as much as he’d thought. 

The continued addition of fresh, if disgusting, meat to his diet has also helped. 

He should move his hands to safer waters. He doesn’t. Where on Jango’s body could be considered safe harbour, anyway? Every centimeter of his body has Obi-Wan’s attention. Even without the ability to see it properly, Obi-Wan could spend days running his hands over Jango’s skin. His hands, his lips, his tongue - his lust spikes in the space between them, sweet and thick. Obi-Wan can’t get off, doesn’t even particularly want to get hard with Anakin plastered against him in the smallest tent known to sentients, but Jango still can.

Obi-Wan is tempted, so dearly tempted. He likes the weight of Jango in his hand. Likes the way he shivers, his moans. But just the thought of it has Obi-Wan’s lust turning the air between them to molasses, dripping against their skin. He stills his hands, splays them out across Jango’s stomach, higher than where they were. He wants to watch Jango unravel under his hands but he could never watch that and remain unmoved.

_ Depends. You like  _

_ It’s not something I’ve had much experience with. _

_ Tch. Bland jetii food, I bet. _ He’s certainly not wrong. Obi-Wan’s own reluctant amusement sparks Jango’s and, for a brief second, it seems as though they’re going to end up giggling on the bed like a pair of children.

_Eat more of it, even if it is tasteless._ _You’re getting thin._ One broad palm comes to rest against Obi-Wan’s ribs. They _are_ getting worryingly prominent. Setting traps for food instead of traps against Sith has given them dearly needed protein but their traps aren’t large and neither are the animals. Enough to take the edge of but not much more. They turn south soon. Hopefully more flora will spring up fairly quickly. They might have to skirt the far plateau for a while, eat more of that scraggly weed that juts from the rock.

_ There are needier mouths than me, _ Obi-Wan says instead of ‘I would if I could.’

_ Plenty of food on my ship. I’ll come give you some. _ Obi-Wan slides his hands up, one to rest on Jango’s hip, the other to curl in the miniscule space between them. Jango’s arm remains a comfortable pillow. The meat of his shoulder is so close to Obi-Wan’s mouth. It would take barely any effort to bite down, to kiss. 

Force he’s ridiculously aroused. He’s trained himself into a terrible, sexual pavlovian reaction to having these dreams. 

Jango smirks, like he can tell what Obi-Wan’s thinking. Maybe he can. Maybe Obi-Wan spoke aloud. That happens, sometimes. The lines between thought and speech are terribly blurred inside the dreamscape. He catches Obi-Wan’s hand, the one between them which had been sliding back down in a straight line to where Obi-Wan wants to touch Jango the most. Stops it’s treachery by bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it, the palm, each of his fingertips. The smirk is gone, now. There’s sadness instead. Sparks of anger.

_ Ob’ika, please. Tell me where you are. I’ll not force you to stay by my side, I swear by the stars. You can go back to those  those  jetii, just let me  _ **_help you_ ** _. _

_ I’m also auretii, in case you’ve forgotten. _ Obi-Wan says instead of answering properly. His emotions give him away, regardless. The knee jerk reaction of  _ yes yes no don’t you want me? _

_ You’re my heart, Ob’ika, you could never be auretii. _ He presses his forehead to Obi-Wan’s, soft and sweet. It’d be the perfect Keldabe kiss, if only Obi-Wan could see the colour of his eyes.

_ Jango you don’t know me. Not really. _ Jango sits up immediately, pulling Obi-Wan with him easily. His agitation is thick in the air around them slivers of anger and incredulity shooting through like lightning.

_ You think I don’t know you when you’re the other half of my own soul? You’re stubborn, too stubborn - _

_ Coming from a Mando’ade?  _

_ \- you’re loyal, you have too many opinions on tea for someone who’s never tried my shig. You value others before yourself. You have a well of compassion and kindness so deep within you that I felt it from the first time we met. You’re mandokarla, Ob’ika, beskar right through to the heart of you. _

_ Is that a subtle way of complimenting yourself? _ Jango refuses to let Obi-Wan deflect this time. His large hands come up to cup Obi-Wan’s face, thumbs stroking the thin skin just under his eyes. Jango can’t see the heavy bags which have taken up residence there but he’s made the logical leap.

_ I could know every part of you and I would think the same. Never doubt that. _

_ I’m not especially sure that you’d like what you’d find _ . Jango shakes his head, wry smile not quite visible but still very present.

_ You think there are no corpses in my closet? Don’t doubt me, Ob’ika. I would never turn from you.  _

The words spark through Obi-Wan like he’s been touched by a live wire. Jango’s sincerity is enough to make Obi-Wan’s eyes burn. It’s too much. All of this, the entire situation, it’s just too much. He wants to be back at the Temple, wants Qui-Gon to be alive. Alive to guide him, to teach him, to remind him to water their plants, to share tea and gossip with. Even if he could blow hot and cold, even if he consistently maintained a distance between them. He was a good man, a good Jedi, and Obi-Wan feels lost without him.

Feels tempted, without him. 

_ If my teacher were here, _ Obi-Wan says, having fallen out of using ‘master’ in Anakin’s company,  _ he would remind me that attachment is forbidden. Remind me that I’ve worked my entire life for one purpose and it is not to fall at the feet of a Mandalorian man. _

_ I’ve never wanted you at my feet Ob’ika, though I’d fall at yours if given the chance, _ Jango rumbles, holding Obi-Wan’s hand to his own chest once more.

_ You’d look good on your knees, _ Obi-Wan thinks but says and the air around them goes hot instantly. Jango slides his hand over Obi-Wan’s, fingers against his palm somehow feeling indecent. This is Obi-Wan’s fault, this atmosphere shift. Again. Jango’s arousal simmers, an undercurrent that’s easy to ignore, that Jango’s willing to ignore. He follows Obi-Wan’s lead in this, never pressing or asking for more than Obi-Wan’s willing to give. Obi-Wan’s arousal sparks and flares, bright and brilliant and demanding. Obvious in a way which had mortified him, at first. Now he’s glad of it, glad that he can’t conceal how much he wants.

But now is not the time. He can’t. They’ve somehow circled bac around to the erotic, despite his best efforts. Pavlovian.

_ Do you want kids? _ Obi-Wan asks, a reminder to himself of why restraint is necessary. Jango doesn’t press him back against the bed, though he knows Obi-Wan would welcome him, willing to change the subject despite the way Obi-Wan’s arousal drags across his skin. 

_ ‘Lek, _ he nods, before shrugging.  _ At least one. I’m willing to take less. I value you over theoretical spawn. _

Heartwarming, coming from a Mando’ade.

_ I think you’d be good with them,  _ Obi-Wan says, not even trying to keep the words in. _ You’d be wrapped around their finger. A pushover.  _

_ You think? Would that make you the disciplinary?  _ Obi-Wan visibly starts, body sliding against the sheets.

_ Oh, ah, I… I-  _

_ I don’t know what’s worse. That you didn’t think you’re automatically included in this or that you think I could ever have kids with anyone else. _

_ Don’t wait for me, _ Obi-Wan tells him, an echo of something said a decade ago,  _ don’t spend your life waiting for something that’ll never happen.  _ Jango’s laugh washes over him, rumbles through the space around them like warm thunder. Very different from the way he’d stilled when fifteen year old Obi-Wan had told him he was a Jedi, that he’d never betray them for something as insignificant as a soul bond.

_ I don’t just sit around pining for you. I have a life. Ambitions. A new job in the works, maybe. _

_ I’m glad to hear it.  _ Obi-Wan is, truly. Jango should have a full life, a good one - but he can feel the undercurrent winding its way through his emotions, knows it’s not subtle enough for Jango to miss it. Jealousy, maybe. Something mean and sharp and greedy. He isn’t sure if’d be able to explain it, if Jango asked. 

_ There’s never gonna be anyone but you, Ob’ika. Not now that I know you. Life without you won’t be abject misery. I won’t fall to pieces. But the galaxy shines brighter when I have you with me. _

_ You’ve never had me with you, _ Obi-Wan hates how brittle he sounds. 

_ I carry you with me everywhere, now. I hold you in my heart always, _ he says, out of focus eyes somehow soft, hands so tender against his skin. It takes a moment and then Obi-Wan can feel himself freeze. A quirk of language, he assures himself, even as his emotions thrash between dread and elation. He remembers Jango’s voice, part of the dream that was  _ only  _ a dream. 

This is just a coincidence. It’s a nice sentiment - in Repub Basic. That it happens to be a direct translation of how Mando’ade say I love you is… Jango didn’t say it, then. He’s not saying it now. A quirk of language. An accident. 

Jango draws him closer, nuzzling at his hairline, greasy as it is. Not that Jango can tell. He presses a quick kiss to Obi-Wan’s temple. Obi-Wan kisses his chin. When did the affection between them become so easy, so thoughtless? Obi-Wan can’t remember. Surely it’s only a recent development. It must be.

_ When I wake up, _ Jango murmurs, easily heard in the silence around them,  _ I’m going to fuck my fist thinking of how you felt just now. The quick jolt of panic, of uncertainty. The way your heartbeat picked up. The euphoria that’s still clinging to us, the smile on your face. How hard you are. _

Obi-Wan is quite ready to deny all of these clearly biased observations. Absurd. He’s not, he doesn’t-

_ You want me to say it for real Ob’ika?  _ Jango croons, lips brushing across Obi-Wan’s face until they’re hoving right near his own. Whatever Obi-Wan’s response would have been - a denial, surely, he’s allowed to think now that he’s awake, able to ignore the flare of emotion he absolutely did not feel at Jango’s words - he’s torn away before he can answer. His own problems are easy to push aside in the face of Anakin’s own tears.

He’s asleep still, deep in the throes of a nightmare, and Obi-Wan shifts the boy so his ear is resting over Obi-Wan’s heart. He runs his hands along Anakin’s head, across his back, reaching out with the Force to soothe him that way as well.

“It’s alright, Anakin, I’m here.” He says again and again with little variation. He avoids phrases like ‘everything will be alright’, ‘nothing’s wrong’ and ‘nothing can hurt you.’ He can’t promise any of that. Refuses to lie to Anakin, not when he’s the only being the boy can currently rely on. Not even in meaningless platitudes he’s unlikely to remember.

Anakin settles, eventually. He’s stays mostly asleep, a single eye cracking open to assess his situation. 

“There’s no one here but us,” Obi-Wan tells him, “just the two of us Anakin. You’re safe. I’ll protect you.” Anakin’s eye closes again. He makes an indistinct vocalisation, rubs his face against Obi-Wan’s chest, and returns to sleep. Obi-Wan doesn’t. Judging by the depth of the night around them, it’s almost time to get up for their first trek of the day. Anaking rouses when Obi-Wan rises to check the traps but slips back into sleep quickly when Obi-Wan lets him know what’s happening. Obi-Wan wakes him up when he’s prepared breakfast, affectionately calls it the second wake up call.

Refuses to let Anakin get up when he does, despite the boys initial protests that he could help. Let the boy have the indulgence of a sleep in, even if it barely counts as one. Anakin’s already slipping into a deep, exhausted sleep. Clearly his sleep before the nightmare hadn’t been easy, either. Obi-Wan doubts he’s so much as stir when he has to crawl from the tent to check the traps. If nothing terrible happens, he might be able to give Anakin a proper sleep in. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t let himself think of anything further, doesn’t let his mind wander to Jango, the brush of his lips against Obi-Wan as he talked. The words he said. It doesn’t mean anything to him, it can’t. He’s a Jedi. He meditates shallowly for a handful of minutes, just enough to keep his mind forcefully blank. The hand he runs over Anakin’s back soothes them both. He keeps at it for long enough that Anakin doesn’t so much as twitch when Obi-Wan finally shifts him to the side. He makes a small disgruntled noise when Obi-Wan moves away but calms immediately when Obi-Wan shushes him.

He tucks the boy in, resists the urge to stroke his hair. He has things to do and the touch might wake Anakin. The boy needs his rest. Obi-Wan plans to push them both hard, today and tomorrow. Start making a push south. They’re going to have to move quickly. Obi-Wan doesn’t sigh until he’s outside of the tent, opening fastened shut behind him. He waits for a minute, listening to Anakin’s steady breathing. Expands his senses, listens to the desert. Thankfully doesn’t hear any out of places noises, no Sith slinking closer while they’re unprotected.

Everything is as it should be. 

Obi-Wan walks several meters in the direction which they came from earlier that night, before they had to camp to avoid the coldest hours. That’s the direction of the game trap. That’s where he’s headed, he’s not going to do anything else. He’s in control. He’s not, he won’t -

Obi-Wan kneels down, just below the ridgeline of a dune. Not too far away, he’d hear Anakin if he called out. Could leap to his feet in a second, if needed. He almost rips the ties of his still foreign pants in his haste to push them down. Anakin’s nightmare had taken the edge off, calmed him, but now that he’s alone he can’t stop thinking about it. 

_ Want me to say it for real, _ Jango had said. Because it hadn’t been a quirk of translation, an accident. He’d said it intentionally, said it to get a rise out of Obi-Wan, said it before, maybe.  Because he meant it . Obi-Wan wraps a hand around himself, too dry. He shouldn’t be doing this. He can’t spare the spit to slick himself even slightly. Coming into the sand won’t be anything but a waste.

_ Gonna fuck my fist, _ Jango’s voice husks inside his mind,  _ thinking of you. _ It’s nothing close to the most obscene thing the other man’s ever said to him, but it hooked him anyway. Obi-Wan grits his teeth at the dry pull of it, licks his hand with a dry mouth in an attempt to make it smoother, slicker. It’s been so long since they’ve fucked; it’s barely been a week but that feels too long when Obi-Wan hungers like this. He thinks of the man’s voice, his touch. Wants to feel Jango inside, where he belongs, deep and relentless. He can remember the feel of it perfectly, friction now barely an issue as he leaks precome down his shaft, over his fingers.

“Jango,” Obi-Wan breathes, thinking of how easy it would’ve been to take Jango in hand. Why does he even pretend, at this point? They both know what he wants, who he longs for. Is it that his commitment to the Jedi is getting weaker or that his attachment to Jango grows stronger? He has to go back to the Temple, after this, turn away from Jango and his warmth.

He doesn't want to. Isn't sure if he'll be able to, when he knows that Jango is but a dream away. Hurting from their blocked connection, unsure if he's alive or dead. The only pain Jango should know is the sting of Obi-Wan's teeth in his skin.

Jango would come for him, if he asked. He'd take Obi-Wan off Tatooine. Off Coruscant. He'd bundle Obi-Wan into those strong arms and hold him, let him shake apart from the weight of his decision, put him back together afterwards. 

He wants to be pushed face first into this kriffing sand, Jango's weight pressing him down. A hand on the back of his neck keeping him in place as Obi-Wan squirms and fucks back onto his fingers. Wants Jango in every way possible, at every possible moment, and all he can ever have are snatches of a shared reality that Obi-Wan’s oath bound to deny.

  
  


A fourth Sith.

Of course there's a fourth. Of course. The Sith to the south were travelling close enough together to merge their Force signatures, to fool Obi-Wan into thinking that there was only one of them. A powerful Sith, to be sure, but Sith singular. Now they've split up to cover more ground. It's what woke Obi-Wan up, despite the first sun being barely past it's zenith; a growing sense of wrongness. Unease crawling up his spine. 

A quick moving Sith, likely on some sort of speeder, moving to cut off the route south. The escape Obi-Wan and Anakin have been heading for. If they keep going, they're more likely to be pinned between Sith and a sheer cliff face than slip through the net. Obi-Wan tracks him as the hours slowly tick past, keeping his breathing slow and steady, making sure not to wake Anakin. He's curled up against Obi-Wan's side, as always. If the Sith made a move north, he’d wake Anakin, have them up and running in moments. But the Sith keeps south, just methodically cuts off their escape route.

They can't even go any further south than they already are or they'll be close enough for the Sith to see through Obi-Wan's increasingly thin shields. It'd be easy to pinpoint them then, start moving directly for their position.

Obi-Wan runs his fingers through Anakin's hair, staring at the roof of their small tent, thinking their options through. Despite their absolute lack of them, Obi-Wan still spends hours turning them over in his mind. He soothes Anakin through a nightmare, tracks the sun via shadows thrown against their tent and thinks.

Pretends to think when he's already made a choice.

"Anakin," he calls softly when the second sun is close enough to the horizon, only a sliver of the first visible. "time to wake up, dear one."

Anakin groans and grumbles and stretches out his limbs, yawning widely as he does. Only then does he peel his eyes open, pouting up at Obi-Wan.

"'m tired," he whines, a recent phenomenon. The quiet little boy who was too aware of his recently freed status had been head strong and stubborn in pursuit of what he felt was right but he never would have whined like this. Obi-Wan approves of the change. His perspective might have changed many years in the future when Anakin entered puberty, but Obi-Wan won’t be there to see it. 

Obi-Wan would usually be checking the traps by now, charring their meat to make it safe to eat but also borderline inedible. Then he’d come back to wake Anakin properly, eat breakfast together - claiming that he’s already eaten most of his meal before he roused Anakin. Today he stays, strokes Anakin's dirty hair, let's the boy linger in the liminal space between dreams and reality.

Anakin seems to enjoy the slow start, rolling in their bedding, kicking his feet out when Obi-Wan finally begins to urge him to sit up. Obi-Wan is not a particularly large man but Anakin is so small against him. They eat together, more even portions than Obi-Wan’s been allowing simply because Anakin would make a fuss if he saw otherwise. 

Obi-Wan throws the boy over his shoulder when they start to pack down the tent, smiling at Anakin's shriek of laughter. Twirls him around before setting him on his feet again, laughing himself at the wobbly steps Anakin takes while trying to regain his balance.

"Hey Obi-Wan?" Anakin says, a few minutes after they set out, breakfast sitting heavily within Obi-Wan's churning stomach.

"Yes Anakin?"

“We’re going into the Sea, aren’t we.”

Anakin’s too perceptive by half, sometimes.

“Yes, dear one. I know I promised we wouldn’t, but…” He doesn’t want to worry Anakin, doesn’t want to explain how the net has tightened around them despite Obi-Wan’s best efforts, but how can he lie?

“I know. I can feel it. More Sith.” He makes an exaggerated face of disgust and Obi-Wan chuckles along, as though he can’t see Anakin’s mounting worry. Can’t feel it resonating down their bond, echoing Obi-Wan’s own thoughts.

“Can you feel another oasis? In the sea?” He asks, little nails scraping along the skin of Obi-Wan’s hand unconsciously.

“Not yet.” Obi-Wan tells him, “but once we cross into the Dune Sea properly I’ll be able to.” He hopes. Anakin’s worry spikes, tiny nails digging in deeper. Obi-Wan reaches across with his free hand and runs it across Anakin’s blond head.

“Fret not, dear one, for I have a plan.”

“Is it a good one?” Anakin asks, dubious, and this time Obi-Wan’s chuckle is very real.

“Oh yes. A last resort plan, perhaps, but I think you’ll like it very much.”

“I mean, any plan that’s not us dying sounds good.” Anakin says bluntly, his blue eyes serious as they stare up into Obi-Wan’s. 

“I think I can do one better than that. How would you like to meet a real life Mando’ade?

  
  
  


_ Anakin, _ Obi-wan says, seated on the edge of what could be Jango’s bed or could be a cliff. The dreamscape seems in flux around them, perhaps in reflection of Obi-Wan’s mental state. Maybe it always does this when he's overwhelmed and emotional to the extent that he can hardly think. He's usually too wrapped up in Jango to notice, either way. He’d ask the man if it weren’t literally the least important thing in his life at the moment.

_ What? _

_ Anakin. He’s… he’s…  _

_ The one with you, _ Jango says, voice low and dangerous. Emotions the same, in flux around them; jealous, protective.  _ What’d he do? _

_ He fell. He’s exhausted, we both are. Gave me a fright when I saw the blood; skinned his knee. Limping and trying to hide it. What if it gets infected, Jango? We have no bacta, no first aid, barely even enough water to clean the wound and I still can’t sense an oasis, Jango, I’m so... _

Jango places a comforting hand on the back of his neck, grounding him. Obi-Wan takes a deep, shuddering breath. Neither help the misery that pours into the air around him, the bright panic, the exhaustion that has him swaying, even in a dream.

_ We can’t last in the desert, Jango. I was too confident, thought we could slip the net but we’re being forced north. Why do they want us to go north? Trap, maybe, I need to protect Ani. I love him so much Jango, I love him I can’t watch him die from the desert or the Sith. Dehydration or torture; maybe a quick death would be best but I can’t, how could I Jango, I- _

_ Hey, hey  breathe. Deep breath. Good. _ Obi-Wan does as he’s told. Sucks in a huge, quaking breath. The things he’s been trying not to think about weigh heavily on him, the truth of his almost frenzied monologue rings in the air around them. Jango’s hand squeezes down on his nape for a long second, a comforting weight. In a dream, this is all it takes to bring Obi-Wan back from the ledge he’s been teetering on. 

Jango doesn’t speak further, just keeps his hand a steady presence on Obi-Wan’s neck as he calms. He’s loud, despite his silence. Jango’s emotions are wild, jagged, tearing through the air around them, pained. Agonising. Despite this, when Obi-Wan takes a breath he feels steady. Calmer than he’s been for weeks. The last however many days have been leading up to this decision.

_ Tatooine, _ he says, turning to face Jango. There's no mistaking what he means.  _ Right at the northern tip of the Great Mesura Plateau, just inside the Northern Dune Sea.  _

Pleasure and happiness wind their way through the spikes of Jango's emotions but they don't dull the sharp edges. Anger, bitterness, jealousy. Heartbreak.

_ You’re doing this for him; Anakin. You’re not asking me to help you, you’re asking for him. _

_ Yes, _ Obi-wan says.  _ Will you? _

_ Of course. Anything you ask, Ob’ika, always _ , Jango swears, the truth of it cutting him in a way that the previous storm of emotions hadn’t. It settles deep within him, the certainty that Jango would do anything for him. 

_ He’s nine. _

The dizzying mire of emotions swells higher for a brief moment before it stills, the meaning of Obi-Wan’s words sinking in. Jango gives the distinct impression of a single blink, even with his face mostly turned away.

_ Nine.  _

_ Yes. I did not intend to give you the wrong-  _ Obi-Wan’s sincere but amused words are interrupted by Jango

_ You have a child? _ The maelstrom of negative emotions collapses, swept away by surprise and joy and relief as though they never were. Jango grins at him, large and bright, before he pulls Obi-Wan in for a loving kiss as his familiar laughter echoes around him. Obi-Wan thinks maybe there's another, slight, miscommunication about his relationship with Anakin, but then they’re toppled to the ground under the force of Jango’s enthusiasm. Their shoulders impact against Jango’s bed and he loses the thought before he can raise it.

_ How far into the sea? _ Jango asks before pressing an open mouthed kiss to Obi-Wan’s neck that has him shivering.

_ Not far. Barely in the sea at all, still in the shadow of the large monolith. I don’t know the name of it but it’s quite distinct. _

_ I know it, _ Jango punctuates his statement with a sharp nip of his teeth. Obi-Wan’s shocked breath is more like a moan and Jango’s laughing again, even as he’s pushed away.

_ Be serious, _ Obi-Wan chides. He’s undermined by his own arousal, too easily stirred after only a week without stimulation. Too easily stirred when it’s Jango before him.

_ What do they say in the Republic? Buir I’d like to fuck? _

He throws something at Jango, unsure what it is or where he got it. The man dodges easily, ducks back in for another loving - no, oh no. It’s not- it is; now that he’s thought it he can’t unthink it. Can’t unknow it, can’t lie to himself. 

_ You’re overthinking something, I can feel it. _ Jango has a hand curled in the hollow of his lower back, the other coming up to curl around his jaw. His touch feels like a brand; inescapable. Exactly how he likes it. Obi-Wan doesn't love him; Jedi are forbidden from such attachments. Sometimes even the deep affection of friendship strains the bounds of the Jedi code.

A Jedi must be constantly aware of such bonds, be aware of the impact they have on decision making, on their ability to be a neutral party. To love someone makes it almost impossible to maintain that neutrality, to come to conclusions untainted by your own personal biases. Jedi are peacekeepers, mediators, and such a position in the Republic is maintained almost solely due to their known impartiality.

Obi-Wan does not love Jango. But he could, easily. So easily.

Jango’s right; he's overthinking. Now's not the time to think about it, not with Jango so close, not with the conversation they still must have.

_ You said you’d let me return to the Jedi, _ a complex mishmash of emotions dripping from the words. Obi-Wan barely knows how he feels about Jango's promise, doesn't have the time or energy to dissect the emotions; doesn't  _ want _ to investigate them any further. Despite everything he's feeling, he doesn't doubt Jango.

_ _ he breathes the words into Obi-Wan’s neck before leaning back, hands moving away; stops touching Obi-Wan entirely. The sense of loss, of regret, strong and unrelenting should be coming from Jango alone. It’s not. Of course it's not.

Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his face. Sighs heavily. This whole thing is a bloody mess. He aches for Jango to touch him again, to be held and hold in return.

_ You don’t have to go back to them. _

_ I know. They're my family. _

Jango sighs, heavy, heartsick, but doesn't attempt to sway him.

_ I’ll take the long way to Coruscant. Make sure you’ve got meat on your ribs, first. _

_ Good,  _ Obi-Wan means it. Despite his better sense he wants the extra time with Jango. Reached for the man's hand before he can stop himself, tangles their fingers together. Jango doesn’t pull away, rubs his thumb across Obi-Wan's hand.

_ Drop you and your  off, see you safe. _ His grip is tight enough to leave bruises, were any of this real. He hurts, aches, a mirror of Obi-Wan.

_ Just me.  _

_ _

_ Anakin isn’t my son, _ he says, once more ignoring the way his emotions show his secrets. The statement is true, objectively, that much is obvious. But his displeasure slinks around them, tainted with the hopes for their future he has to let go. Anakin was never anything more than his responsibility, not officially, no matter what daydreams he’d been entertaining. He isn’t Anakin’s guardian, Anakin isn’t his padawan. Obi-Wan has no claim on him.

_ Does he know that? _

_ Of course. We met barely before we started dreaming together again. _

_ Other parents? _

_ Dead. He was put into my care prior to that. _

_ He like you? Respect you? Trust you? _

_ Yes.  _

_ Want to leave you? _

The reluctant amusement that bubbles gives Obi-Wan’s answer, even before he says,  _...I believe the answer to that may be an emphatic ‘no.’ _

_ Maybe you should take his opinion under advisement. _

_ Joining me at the Temple wouldn’t be good for him, Jango, so I’m afraid I’m not particularly inclined to give him this choice. _

_ Interesting  _ \- amusement, the sense of some unknowable trap closing, _ and you want what’s best for him, would do anything to protect him? _

_ You already know the answer, Jango. _

The man grins, wrapping a thick arm around Obi-Wan’s waist again, tugging them chest to chest. Obi-Wan tangles their legs together, runs his foot against the length of Jango’s calf. So much for keeping their distance as they talk; this is eminently more comfortable.

_ You want what’s best for the kid, care for him, love him, are willing to part with him for his benefit even though I can feel your grief already, Ob’ika. _

Obi-Wan disagrees with the word grief; much too strong an emotion for what he’s feeling. He’s just a bit melancholy over the situation; he’s not  _ grieving _ the loss of their future- Obi-Wan’s mind twists, tilts sideways, gives him the distinctly unpleasant sensation of vertigo. Ah. That was very much a lie, apparently.

_ Safe to say that’s your kid now,  , whether you’re ready to know it or not.  _ Jango has made some unfortunately sound points. Worse, Obi-Wan’s own heart and mind have decided to believe him. His soulmate truly must be a master orator. He sighs, buries his head against Jango’s neck. 

_He’ll put up a fight when I leave him with you,_ Obi-Wan ignores the previous revelation, gets back to the matter at hand.

_ Surprising, _ Jango deadpans.

_ I’ll figure it out when I’ve slept for at least twelve hours straight, _ Obi-Wan groans, scraping his teeth against the soft skin under his mouth. Jango shivers. Obi-Wan can feel him wavering between chasing that or continuing to talk about Anakin. Like a true Mando’ade, he pursues the conversation about the welfare of a child.

_ If he feels the same way you do, leaving him behind will be devastating, a betrayal, a hurt carried for the rest of his life. _

_ He doesn’t agree with the Jedi Code - _

_ Smart ad’ika, _Jango chuckles, ignoring Obi-Wan’s exasperation. 

_ \- and while he would be a good Jedi, a powerful one, I think the becoming might break something in him. He… also does not agree with Jedi ideas on soulbonds.  _ This time Jango says nothing. Obi-Wan’s mind fills in the things he’s thinking, based on the emotions caressing his skin. Approval and amusement for Anakin, anger and resentment towards the Jedi, a desperate yearning that Obi-Wan will leave the only family he’s ever known for a Mando he’s ignored for the better part of a decade.

_ Did those  Jetiise tell you to ditch him? _ Jango asks instead of saying any of that. Obi-Wan isn’t sure how to answer but his emotions taint the air around him, forever shouting the things he’d rather hide. Jango’s fingers press hard enough to bruise for a moment, as he understands what Obi-Wan’s unintentionally telling him. The unease, the mixture of discomfort and contrition, the spark of love-pride.

_ They want to keep him. Those Jetiise want your ad’ika, they’d let you keep him, but instead you’re going to leave him with their enemy, a Mando’ade who- _

_ Is my soulmate. Yes.  _

The admission seems to echo around them. Emotions tangle back and forth, too many things to pick out individual feelings but overwhelming all the same. 

_ You’ll be a good buir, _ Obi-Wan says, ignoring the burn of tears,  _ what was it you said? Buir I’d like to fuck? _

He ignores the thought that slithers in the scant space between them, the carefully enunciated  _ we would take such good care of him together. _ If he ignores it then he can pretend, later, that it came from Jango.

You said Sith, before, Jango thankfully moves the conversation on. Obi-Wan nods.

_ Four of them, at least. They destroyed most of Mos Espa, forced us into the desert. _ Jango snarls, flickers of negative, angry thoughts licking across Obi-Wan’s skin. Curious. Perhaps it is only that these four Sith are pursuing his soulmate and a child. Perhaps the Council have twisted themselves into knots over a renewed alliance between the Mandalorian Empire and the Sith for no reason at all. Such ties are hundreds of millennia old, after all. Then again, the opinion of a single Mando’ade does not inform the policy of an Empire, either.

_ darjetii, _ he finally says before running his hand up the length of Obi-Wan’s spine, wrapping his large hand around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck. His hold is possessive and Obi-Wan leans back into it, tilting his head to look Jango in his out of focus eyes.

_ Two days Ob’ika. Be ready. _

_ Oh, so soon? How will I have everything packed?  _

Jango kisses him, hard and fast, and then he’s gone, dreamscape collapsing into deeper sleep in his wake.

  
  
  
  
  


Jango’s feet hit cold steel before his eyes even open, pulling on the same kute he’s been wearing for the past few days. He’s been showering, of course, but laundry has taken a backseat as he and Pre Vizsla try and narrow down the list of desert planets Ob’ika - and his... his  could be on. In a matter of days Jango will have a child; he has to rescue the boy first. The list of desert planets in the galaxy is long; if they’d included planets which contain a desert biome, the list would have been longer than his arm. Jango had also, reluctantly, taken out desert planets within the Empire. 

Reluctantly because there’s a not insignificant chance that his soulmate could have been on one of them. He knows Ob’ika spent some time in Mandalore somewhere, maybe even Manda’yaim. Unless his Mando’a teacher was both exacting and a traitor from the very heart of the empire, there’s no way he got that crisp Keldabe accent anywhere outside the Empire. What the kriff a Jedi was doing so deep in Mandalore space, he’d love to know. 

His buir and the council are also dying to know, though the former of those has been desperately trying to make the entire issue not his problem for the last few years. Dropping increasingly unsubtle hints about retirement and fresh blood and,  _ hey Jango, wouldn’t you like to spar? Don’t mind the traditional circle or the impartial witnesses! What official challenge! Ad’ika come back! _

The Gauntlet has room for up to four permanent crew members and the berths are paired off, two by each of the engines in case of emergencies. The berth twinned to his is empty because Pre likes to annoy the kark out of him at every opportunity. Instead of taking three steps out his own door, he’s got the entire breadth of the kom’rk class ship to cross before he can rouse Pre.

He’s halfway there when he thinks of his comm unit, forgotten next to his bed. Too desperate to get moving and do something to remember that he could have just called. Kark it. Too late now, he’s almost there. Jango hammers on the door relentlessly and he can hear Pre’s loud bitching before the door begins to slide open.

“I swear to Manda, Fett, if you’ve come for another karking midnight vent session about your-”

“Tattooine,” Jango interrupts, intense. Pre doesn’t even take a moment to be surprised, just pushes past him and heads towards the cockpit. Shebs didn’t even bother to pull on a kute, or underwear, striding through the halls bare arsed. Jango’s seen it before; going through  training together doesn’t leave much room for privacy. Hopefully he’ll get into the habit of wearing pants when they have an adiik running around. 

Jango falters midstep. Everything seems so much simpler, in their shared dreams. Ob’ika has a child? Great, wonderful. Jango had been more relieved about his soulmate’s travel partner not being a romantic competitor to think about the ramifications of Anakin being  _ nine. _ When Ob’ika had asked him about parenting, Jango had been thinking about it in the abstract. Something for future discussion, after he and Ob’ika have settled with each other. Ob’ika had been talking about right now.

For a brief but intense moment, Jango wants to call his buir. His comm’s in his berth, though, and he’s already panicked enough that Pre’s disappeared from sight completely. He jogs through the corridors, arriving in the cockpit just in time to watch Pre take the pilots seat, half the buttons already lit up as he inputs their course.

Jango could have set the course. Could have let Pre sleep for a few hours until it was closer to morning by Manda’yaim time. Could have if Pre wasn’t so precious about his ship. He doesn’t let  _ anyone _ do anything to the Gauntlet without his gimlet eye on their backs. He respects Pre enough not to kriff with his ship.

“You were right then; probably something to do with that kriffed osik over on Naboo. Which spaceport?” Pre says when Jango gets close enough.

“No port; Northern Dune Sea. And the timing fit too well to be a coincidence.”

“You know that they say; coincidence is just a pattern you haven’t seen yet!” Pre’s imitation of Jaster is actually pretty good, though he absolutely murders Jaster’s enthusiastic smile. Pre looks like he’s thinking about murdering someone’s dog. 

“At least it wasn’t karking Jedha,” Jango says, sinking into the co-pilots seat.

“Osik yeah. You would’ve been climbing the walls. The ceilings, since you’ve been climbing the walls for the past week.” They’ve been in the Gauntlet for a week, heading vaguely in the direction Naboo without going so far spinward they’d be too far away from the other potential planets. Tatooine’s barely two days away by the Triellius trade route. Two days and then he’ll finally see Ob’ika, finally touch him.

“Yeah, yeah, can it. What’s our ETA?”

“Not quite two days. Might shave half a day if I cut the lane after Lyran. Risky, though.”

“Do it,” Jango orders, ignoring Pre’s not at all quiet grumble of, 

“You’re not ‘Alor yet, might want to try some manners.” Half a second of silence, then, “Brace.” The glittering lights of space stretch and then streak across the front window, the Gauntlet throwing itself into hyperspace with a little shudder. Smoother than most ships on the market. Smoother than most kom’rk class ships, too. Jango’s fairly certain that Pre spends half his life deep within the guts of one ship or another.

“ ” Pre asks after a few minutes where they both do nothing more than watch starlight smear to thick lines before them.

“You’ll have to start wearing actual clothes.”

“Why? Worried your soul’ll see what I’m packing and jump ship?” Jango glances over at Pre’s lap, slowly raises an eyebrow. Pre flips him off in response.

“Nah. Might scare the kid, though.” He watches Pre as the man squints in confusion, waiting. Half a minute passes. Pre blinks, swivels his chair to face a smirking Jango. Blinks again, a slowly dawning look of horror on his face.

“You’re gonna have to run that one by me again.”

“He’s nine, apparently very lovable; you’ll get to know each other well since you’re gonna be babysitting.” Several very interesting things happen to Pre’s face in an incredibly short amount of time. His face somehow gets whiter, mouth drops open in shock; he starts to look a little bit nauseous and a lot worried. Then, of course, comes the mottled pink, high across his cheek bones as he works himself up for what is sure to be a long, loud rant.

“Babysitting? Babysitting! I swear Jango you absolute-” He starts, severely unimpressed. Jango is unconcerned. Pre’s Mandokarla, he’d never hurt a kid. He doesn’t like them, actively tries to minimise the amount of contact he has with them, but he’s not the sort of shebs who’d shout at a kid. He’s just extremely awkward around them. His panic grows with each second he’s left alone with a child; it’s a quiet panic, nothing a child would ever notice. He likes to have a good rant afterwards, while Jango laughs at him.

“-supposed to do with him, anyway? Does he need special food? Jango we haven’t got any blue milk! How are we going to feed a child?! And-”

The rant’s coming first this time, which is new. Then again, usually whichever parent it is makes the clearly intelligent move of dropping the kid off seconds after telling Pre he’s on kid watch. No time to shout and panic when the kid’s already there, staring.  _ Judging me, _ Pre hissed once, scowling,  _ those wide little eyes knew I had no experience and they were judging me! _

“-just suck it up and keep your dick in your pants, Fett! You and your soul should look after the kid instead of foisting him on me so you can kriff each other! Wait til we’re back on Manda’yaim, make your buir babysit and leave me out of it!”

Pre slumps against the backrest, apparently done with shouting for now. Jango’s ears might be ringing a bit. He waits for a minute or so, since the man does occasionally have a second - usually longer - rant tucked away, before he responds.

“My soul is currently planning on returning to the jetiise. I have until we get to Coruscant to change his mind.” Pre raises an eyebrow, kicking his legs up onto the console. 

“Huh. Too bad you’re not charming.”

“Kriff off.”

“That’s the mouth you’re gonna seduce him with? Maybe I _should_ look after the kid. You get any time to actually talk and it’s game over for you, Fett.” Pre’s lucky his blasters are still in his berth. The temptation to stab him with the knife he keeps tucked away in his kute is almost overwhelming as it is.

“What’s the most circular route you can take back to Coruscant?” He asks instead of starting a brawl with his friend in the size restricted cockpit.

“Lothal then Dantooine.” That trip would take weeks, especially if they changed hyperlanes often. Ob’ika would figure it out not even halfway to Lothal. Jango could play it off multiple ways; they can’t travel easily through Republic space with their very obviously Mando’a ship and so have to go via the Empire; giving themselves enough time to be sure Ob’ika’s back to full health before he goes; it’s a space trip for the kid, what you’ve never wanted to see Dantooine?

He could make such claims; he won't. Jango’s not going to make any excuses. If Ob’ika asks him, he’ll tell the truth. He wants more time with his soul mate. Wants to memorise every part of him, touch and taste and treasure until there’s nothing he doesn’t know. Needs the chance to tie Ob’ika to him so tightly that the man won’t ever want to leave him. Spend time together, all three of them, forge beskar strong ties between each other and Anakin. Bond as a family. Make it so that even if Ob’ika leaves, he’ll come home again. 

He’ll go back to the jetii who he claims as family and discover that it’s nothing like what he needs. What he yearns for, night after night, missing the warmth of his son, his soulmate. He could cut Jango out of his life before, when they knew nothing of each other, barely more than shadows in a dream. Can he do the same to a fully realised soul bond? Stubborn as he is, the realistic answer is probably yes. Jango hopes that he can't, hopes the he won't. Jango's not usually the sort of man to spend much time hoping. He's always been too practical for that. Seems like he's had nothing but hope since he started having the soul dreams again. It was something like a miracle, to have his soul in front of him once more, half a decade after Jango started to mourn him. Hope seems less like a pipe dream, after that. 

If Ob’ika asks, Jango will tell him every word of that. He doesn’t think Ob’ika will ask, not even when they’re past Lothal and are on their way to Dantooine. So long as they don’t visit Manda’yaim itself, Jango’s fairly certain that Ob’ika won’t so much as complain. The way he feels when they dream together, Jango knows he wants to stay. All he needs is incentive, a push. If that push is Jango taking him over every surface in the Gauntlet, so be it.

If the push is leaving him alone and cold on Coruscant, enduring night after night of isolation and loneliness until he comes to his senses… so be it.

Jango will have his soul one way or another. And if, somehow, Ob’ika doesn’t come back to them?

The new ‘Alor will burn Coruscant and then take what he wants. 

**Author's Note:**

> You know, because I have terrible reading comprehension, I thought this was due on the 5th of Nov and then panicked and smashed out a good 75-80% of this in about 12 hours of panic writing. Turns out it was due _Dec_ 5th, which gave me time to edit and all that good stuff, which I really appreciated. Shit reading comprehension... for the win???
> 
> Also, I have made mention of Amatakka, which is a part of [Fialleril's expansive Tatooinian slave culture worldbuilding.](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/tatooine-slave-culture)
> 
> ALSO - I can't believe I forgot to mention that some of the background to this fic - the Mandalorian empire stuff - riffs off of Millberry_5's Integrationau


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